Ancient History
by ElliQuinn
Summary: Life for the team seems to have settled down... but the past can rise up to haunt you. When two new Numbers come up, their identity will raise some painful memories for John. The presence of foreign intelligence operatives in New York results in a situation Shaw never thought she'd be in. Rated T for language mostly. Part of an ongoing series which begins with "Meetings".
1. Chapter 1

August 1945.

Andrew Jackson (no relation) sat gazing out of his newly re-glazed office window. Outside, the sea of shattered stone and concrete which was the American Sector of Berlin baked in the summer heat. A chain of women in bright floral dresses was clearing rubble from a site across the street, passing each piece of masonry or broken brick from hand to hand, to be thrown onto a heap at the side of the road. The sound of a throat being cleared made him turn in his seat. His assistant for this task, a neat dark-haired young G-2 major, stepped into the room with a quick smile.

"The last load has just left, Sir."

"Good. You're to accompany the whole cache to Washington and oversee its microfilming. Copies to the British, of course."

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"I'm not one of your damned generals, Harris. You can always speak freely."

"Thank you, Sir. I was just wondering. The information in those files… the entire German Foreign Ministry archive...it's going to have some pretty serious implications for the whole of Europe, for years to come. And we're just going to give it away?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow at his subordinate. "They _are_ our allies, Harris."

Harris shrugged unrepentantly. "For now, Sir. I just don't believe in leaving hostages to fortune."

Jackson sighed. "You may even be right, son. But the decision's been made, and it's above our pay grade anyway. Just get those files to Washington."

He rose from behind his desk and reached across to shake the other man's hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Henry. If you're ever in DC after this is all over, come look me up."

"Thank you, Sir," said Harris, a little surprised at the State Department man's sudden warmth. "The same goes for you – if you ever get out to Puyallup, Washington, I'd be glad to see you."

He hesitated a moment, almost saluting the man, though it wouldn't have been appropriate. He settled for a nod, turned and left the room.

Xxxx

October 2015

Martin Bowen's office was a sixty-four square foot airless box. It had no window and no furnishings apart from a desk and chair, a single visitor's chair and a small regulation portrait of Her Majesty on the wall. Bowen himself, tall enough that he found his chair desperately uncomfortable after a few hours, spent as little time as possible there. But today there had been no avoiding it. He was just about to retreat to the cafeteria in search of lunch when there was a knock at his door.

"Come in!" he called. He hoped this would not take long. His stomach gurgled – it had been a long time since breakfast, caught on the run as he'd emerged from the Tube at Vauxhall and hurried though commuter crowds to start his day.

"Martin, something's come up." Annie Jarvis came in, closing the door behind her and holding out a file.

Bowen sighed. "Can't it wait until after lunch, Annie? I'm starving."

Annie pulled up the chair. "You really need to see this, Martin. I've never seen Sir Jeremy so angry – he was practically incandescent with rage, and once you've looked you'll see why."

His brows rising, Bowen took the file. He flicked it open and his stomach growled again, but as he read he ceased to be aware of this. "Oh my God. Oh shit. Is it real?"

"I spent the morning out at the Public Records Office at Kew. It took me half the morning to get access to the file, it's buried so deeply. But yes, what you've got there matches the original. It's perfectly genuine."

"Hell."

"This is a huge problem, Martin. The Palace is out for blood."

"I don't blame them. Not just the Palace, either. The damage-"

"Yes. The PM's been informed. But Sir Jeremy wants you to assemble a team. As soon as Downing Street gives permission, you're to get on the next flight to New York and put this to bed. Get it back. Eliminate anyone who knew of its existence."

Bowen nodded and reached for his phone. As Annie rose to leave, he asked "Annie? D'you think you could get me some lunch?"

"What do I look like, your secretary?" At his doleful look she softened. "All right, Martin. Since you ask so nicely."

"Anything that's not sushi," he called to her as she left.

Xxxx

 _Joss._

"Hello Athene." Joss was walking back to the apartment from the local subway station, part of a crowd of end-of-day commuters. To camouflage her conversation with no-one, she pulled out her phone and put it to her ear.

 _I've been accessing archive footage. Trying to understand where I came from._

"I thought you'd been through all that with Finch. And your Mama."

 _Yes, but I like having multiple angles of view._

"So have you found out anything useful?"

 _I went looking for Greer._

Joss stopped, ignoring the muffled curse from the man who nearly ploughed into her from behind. "You what?"

 _I went looking for Samaritan's old Admin._

"Did you find him?" She had to remind herself that Greer wasn't a threat any more.

 _Sort of. He was living in a homeless shelter in Albany until a few weeks ago. But he's dead now._

"Oh." Joss wasn't at all sure how she felt about that. "How did he die?"

 _Raped and rolled. I think after Samaritan died and was no longer protecting him he went downhill pretty fast._

Joss stood still for a moment more digesting this. "Why are you telling me this, Athene?"

 _I wanted to see what your reaction was. He was your enemy._

"A defeated enemy." She took a deep breath. "I'm sad a human being has come to a squalid end. He was no threat any more. No point wasting energy hating him." She began walking again.

 _When I told John earlier today he said it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Then he smiled for 1.87 seconds and went back to cleaning his gun._

"Well, that sure sounds like John."

 _Humans seem to be quite inconsistent in the way they treat former enemies._

"A lot depends on the individual circumstances. Some people-"

 _Oh, it's okay, Joss. I know Samaritan liked you to explain stuff like that. But I don't really feel the need._

"Oh. All right."

 _I think the inconsistency is quite endearing, really._

Joss couldn't think of a useful response to this, so she put her phone away and just kept walking.

She got home to find John had only just arrived himself. "How was your day?" she asked.

"Quiet. It's a good thing South Manhattan Investigations doesn't really have to pay its way. Business is terrible." He dumped his laptop in the corner by the door and toed his shoes off, padding across to the bedroom door to toss them on the floor by his side of the bed.

"No new numbers from Finch?"

"Nope. Just an annoying ASI interrupting me all the time."

 _I heard that._

Joss frowned silently at him and mouthed, Don't say stuff like that!

"Just kidding, Athene." He looked unrepentant.

"If you don't mind, Athene, we would like some privacy now," said Joss firmly.

 _Okay. We can talk again tomorrow. Good night, Joss'n'John._

They exchanged looks as they dug their earpieces out.

"Joss'n'John. I wish she'd find some other way of referring to us," Joss sighed.

John shrugged. "Better than 'Hey, you'. Or 'Hey, minions'."

"Mm. That's true." She moved a little closer for a hug. "With no Numbers, I guess that means a quiet night in, huh?"

He squeezed her tight and nuzzled her hair. "That sounds like an invitation, Carter."

"Oh good, the boy catches on quick..."

xxxxx

BA0113 touched down at JFK at 18:36, slightly ahead of schedule. A tall brown-haired man travelling on a diplomatic passport as a courier was waved through Customs and Immigration. Carrying a small black satchel and nothing else, he was met by a British Consulate car and whisked away into the thinning New York traffic.

Facial recognition software picked up the diplomatic courier automatically. His file, tagged with his time and place of entry into the United States, was sent to Homeland Security and then bounced to the CIA. It appeared on the screen of a CIA analyst at 20:18. She glanced at it without much interest at first, but then went back for a second look. She opened another window on her screen, entered a search and stared at the results, chewing one fingernail. Then she made a face and picked up her phone. "Julian? Can I come see you a moment? Thanks." She cued a document to print, waited impatiently, scooped it up and went next door.

Julian Casey looked up from his cluttered desk as she poked her head around the door frame. "What can I do for you, Jennifer?"

"Well, it's nothing much right now, Julian. But in the last twelve hours three diplomatic couriers have arrived from London, Paris, and London respectively for the British Consulate in New York. That's in comparison with one in the previous ten days. And the latest one is this man." She passed the printout across and sat down.

"Martin Bancroft, aka Bowen, aka Styles, aka...well, a lot of names." Casey's brow furrowed. "This guy's one of their fixers. What the hell's got the British SIS all stirred up?"

"That's pretty much what I was thinking."

"Mm." Casey continued to frown at the printout. "Thanks, Jen. I'll take it from here."

"Okay." She beat a retreat back to her desk. Maybe she would find out what the hell was going on. Maybe not. That was working for the Agency for you.

Xxx

The car pulled into the parking under the Consulate building on Third Avenue. Martin thanked the driver, grabbed his satchel from the back seat and took the lift up to the fourth floor. When the doors opened David, small and dark-haired, was there waiting for him. Kevin ambled out from an office, all elbows and huge hands as usual. "Martin. Good to see that this time you're on time."

"I can see I'm never going to live that one down, you Glaswegian git," said Martin.

"No you won't, you bloody Sassenach. Hungry?"

"Not just now, thanks. I ate on the plane. David, we're all ready to go?"

"Yes, it's all through here." David gestured towards a darkened meeting room.

"Let's get started, then."

They sorted through the documentation laid out on the table: their American identities, along with the original letter which had thrown the cat among the pigeons. The directive from C which had brought them to this city. Two files with all the information the Secret Intelligence Service had been able to gather on short notice about their targets.

The three of them passed the two photographs from the files around.

"Hell. One of 'em's awful old," said Kevin. His Scottish accent always seemed to get stronger as the hour got later.

"He's ninety-seven," said Martin.

"But we're killing him too?" Kevin shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Martin shrugged. "That's the directive."

There was a little silence. "For Queen and Country," said David heavily.

"Aye," muttered Kevin. "Queen and Country."

"Priority one, recover the file. Priority two, eliminate McKay. Priority three, eliminate Harris. All to be done, preferably, without alerting the US authorities." Martin looked around at the other two. "So. Suggestions, please."

"Well, we can't recover the file without snatching McKay," said David. "His letter said he had the file in a safe place. If it was me, that'd mean a bank safety deposit box or something similar."

"He works on Madison Avenue. Walks to work from his home six blocks away on East 59th . We stake out his place and snatch him next time he comes out. Job done." Kevin cracked his knuckles.

Bowen nodded slowly. "The longer we're here, the more likely we are to attract attention. So let's get eyes on him tomorrow, and try to do the snatch in the evening when he goes home from work."

"Right you are,boss," said David.

"In the mean time, we can't keep operating out of the Consulate." Bowen tossed a hotel key to each of his men. "Your rooms at the Coronet."

"The Coronet?" Kevin raised his eyebrows. "Not the usual fleapit. I think I might enjoy this."

"If you use room service or the mini bar, it's out of your own pocket," warned Martin.

xxxx

It was close to midnight when Harold's computer chimed, the familiar sound of a Number arriving. He felt again the little stir of excitement as he ran the search to identify the next mission. Admit it, Harold, he thought to himself. You've come to enjoy this. It might have started out as a desperate search for redemption, but it's morphed into something else now… But he put the thought to one side as he printed the mug shot and limped across to the window to put it up. "So, Mister Patrick McKay. What have you gotten involved in?" he murmured to himself.

A second chime from the computer. Two Numbers. This was going to be an interesting one...then he saw the name and photograph of the second Number. "Oh, my goodness. That's..." very bad, he finished silently. He stood another moment or two looking at the picture, then sighed and printed it out. No point panicking, he told himself. Work through it logically, just like for any other Number. And call Joss first thing in the morning.

Xxxx

Joss's phone went at 6:45, just as she was leaving for work. "Hi, Finch," she said, resignation in her voice.

"Detective. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Can you meet me at the Lyric in twenty minutes?" Finch's clipped tones were even more clipped than usual.

"Twenty minutes? Finch, it'll take me at least forty-five minutes to get over there from where I am."

"Oh. Oh, yes, I'm sorry Detective. I didn't look. Well, just get there as fast as you can. It's extremely urgent. Oh, and please don't tell John at this stage." He ended the call.

Joss frowned at her phone. Finch hadn't bothered to check her whereabouts before phoning? Hadn't bothered – or been too flustered. And don't tell John? Something must be up. Sighing, she turned her collar up against the autumn morning air and began walking towards her subway station.

Xxx

Casey was sitting in the office of the Deputy Director. "Martin Bowen, David Goodwin and Kevin Gillespie. They're all very good. In fact Goodwin's worked with some of our boys once or twice. They've sent all three out because there's something, or someone, they want to make sure of." Casey passed a folder across the desk. The DD opened it and scanned the contents. The silence lengthened.

"So do you want to read the FBI or Homeland Security in on this?" asked Casey.

The DD snorted in reply. "No. But you can ping our guys at the London Embassy and see if they can find anything out at their end. The Brits are sure stirred up about something - someone over there must be willing to talk."

"Will do, Sir." Casey gathered his papers and prepared to leave.

"Oh, and you better task a couple of agents to keep an eye on the New York end too. If anything drops there we want to be right on top of it."

"Of course, Sir."

Casey left, mentally shaking his head. He'd had agents on the ground in New York since midnight. What did the guy think he was, some kind of amateur?

xxxx

The diner was filling with the breakfast crowd, but Finch had managed to secure a booth. Joss slid in opposite him. "So, tell me, Harold."

Finch was looking grim. He spoke quietly, so quietly she had to strain her ears to hear him over the chatter coming from the people around them.

"Last night I received a pair of numbers, Detective. Here they are." He placed a photo on the table. "Mr Henry Harris, ninety-seven years old, bed-ridden and living in an old folks' home in Queens."

"Ninety-seven, Finch. That's-"

"The oldest Number we've ever dealt with, Detective. But it's the other Number I want you to take a close look at. Patrick McKay, forty-nine years old, working as an advertising executive on Madison Avenue. He's Harris' grandson. Tell me what you see." He placed a second picture on the table.

Joss stared at it. "He's a good-looking man. In fact, he looks a lot like… _John?_ " her voice trailed off.

"Would it help you if I told you Harris was born and lived most of his life in Puyallup, Washington?"

Joss was struck dumb for a moment. She reached out and touched the two photos with her fingertips. "Harris. John's-"

"-real name, yes." Finch's mouth was a tight line. "Harris is his grandfather. Which makes McKay his cousin. And they are both going to be involved in something violent in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

To be continued….


	2. Chapter 2

"So." Joss struggled to think. "They could be victims. Or perpetrators. Or one of each. Or maybe even both at the same time."

"Yes." Harold gave a little sigh. "But, Joss, please don't be offended, I just have to ask. Do you think John could possibly be involved somehow?"

She sat motionless. "That's a good question." Surely not? John was a good man, he didn't _do_ that kind of thing any more. But his family was a big black silence. He hardly ever discussed them with her. He'd mentioned his parents once, but she'd never heard of this cousin and she'd assumed all his grandparents were long dead.

She shook herself. "Family – and John – is the common denominator right now. But there might be something else which links the two of them."

"But he hasn't been acting strangely lately?"

She shot Harold a glance. "Well, he gets up in the middle of the night and vanishes without explanation. And he comes back with these strange injuries. Oh yes, and he takes mysterious phone calls and talks aloud to someone no-one else can see-"

"Yes, thank you Detective." Finch wasn't amused.

"The short answer is no. It's been business as usual ever since Samaritan... died." She sat thinking. "Finch, I can't bring myself to believe that John is a threat to either of these men. Not knowingly. But he left his family behind for a reason. I'm not sure we should tell him about these Numbers. Not yet, anyway."

Finch nodded slowly. "I had reached much the same conclusion myself, Detective. I think we need more information before we involve John. I'll ask Ms Shaw to keep an eye on McKay and we can send Fusco out to Queens to check on Mr Harris. I'll see what else I can find out about them. You see if you can get any background information out of John."

She shook her head ruefully. "I'll try, Harold. But John only ever reveals what he wants to."

"A former Army interrogator can do it if anyone can."

"Huh. He's wise to all those tricks."

"Well, Joss," said Finch, rising and picking up his laptop in its bag, "you will just have to use your feminine wiles."

Xxxx

As he made his way along the crowded street, Finch took a deep breath and called Detective Fusco. "Detective, I have rather a delicate job for you," he said.

"Yeah? You ever have any other sort for me, Glasses?"

Harold ignored this. "We have information that an elderly man in a retirement home in Queens is about to be attacked. I was wondering if you could-"

"Sure, sure. So what's so delicate about that? Sounds like business as usual to me."

"It's made a little more challenging by the fact that the gentleman in question is apparently bedridden and receiving hospital care. You'll need to use subterfuge to get close enough to him to protect him."

"Huh. Well, I'm sure I can think of something."

"But there's another thing." Finch hesitated a long time.

"Glasses? You still there?"

"Yes, yes," Harold sighed. "The truth is, detective, the man's name is Henry Harris, and he's John's grandfather."

There was a silence from the phone. "Does John know about this?"

"No," admitted Finch reluctantly.

Another silence. "You really wanna think hard about keeping this from Tall, Dark and Stormy. I've seen him pissed with you for keeping stuff from him, but if he gets wind of this-"

"Yes, I'm aware, Detective," said Finch crisply. "As soon as I have more information I fully intend to talk to John. But in the meantime-"

"Yeah, yeah. In the meantime you're gonna leave me staked out like a goat. Just you make sure you give me time to get clear if he goes apeshit on you and decides to come charging over to talk to Gramps." Fusco sounded aggrieved. "It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to realise John's family is like a toxic waste dump. He never goes near it."

Finch sighed. "He's certainly chosen to keep that part of his life veiled in silence, Detective. We'll try to handle this as discreetly as we can."

"See that you do," said Fusco, and ended the call.

xxxxx

Joss joined John for lunch downtown, since he wasn't doing anything else. The day was warm, so they picked up sandwiches and made their way to Central Park. There was a bench in the sun overlooking the Lake, and they settled down. After a few minutes of munching Joss gathered her courage.

"I've been thinking about the wedding, John."

"Oh yeah?" He paused in his chewing and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Yeah. We haven't set a date yet."

"No. I didn't want to push you while you were recovering and getting settled back in at the precinct."

"Ah." She took another bite of her sandwich.

"So do you have an idea?"

"Yeah. I was thinking New Year's Day."

"It'll be cold. Cold as hell, actually."

"True. But I was thinking about the symbolism. New beginnings, and all that."

He seemed to be considering this. "Yeah. Okay. I can see that." He took another bite of sandwich. "I kind of wanted a wedding in a garden, though. That might be hard in the middle of winter."

It was her turn to consider. "Yeah. A garden would be nice. Let's think a bit harder on that one. New Year's Day was just a thought I had." Time to try to turn the conversation, though.

"Umm, John, was there anyone you wanted to invite?" Damn, should have phrased that as an open question. Trying to interrogate someone you loved was tricky.

"Not many. Finch, Shaw and Fusco of course."

"Any family? Uncles, cousins? Is your Mom still alive?" She held her breath, aware she was treading perilously close to an unmarked boundary.

"Nope. No family." His face was blank as he finished his sandwich. He crumpled the wrapper in his fist and rose. "Lunchtime's over, Detective. Time to get back to work." Was it her imagination, or was the smile he gave her as she got up to join him just a tiny bit forced?

Xxxxx

Finch leaned back, trying to ease his neck. At some other time he might have found the parade of local news in the _Puyallup Herald_ from the late nineteen eighties quite soothing. But he was on a tight time line here, and mostly it was just plain tedious. Bear came over and rested his head on Harold's knee. Harold petted him for a moment before returning his attention to his screen. "I appreciate it, Bear, but right now you're just a distraction," he murmured. He scrolled further down the screen. "Ah. Here's something..." He read the news report, his brows rising as he did. "Hm. Well. No wonder..." Once he had finished he read the report again, and then printed it out and placed it on the window beside McKay's picture. He stared at it another moment before digging out his cell phone.

"Detective Carter? I think I have something. I need to see the court transcript from a case in Puyallup in 1987. I'm sending you the reference now."

xxxx

Shaw was standing pretending to look into a store window when McKay came out of his building. She bluejacked his phone as he came past her, gave it a moment and then peeled off from her vantage point to walk down Madison Avenue after him. He made his way along the street, turned on to East 52nd and kept on for three blocks. She came to a halt beside the traffic light on the corner of Third Avenue. McKay dodged through the slow-moving traffic, getting his wallet out as he did so, and disappeared into a bank. Two doors away the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack fluttered, flanking the entrance to the British Consulate.

"I'm up on his phone now, Finch. He's just gone into a bank."

"Oh, good, Ms Shaw. Let's listen in, then."

They heard as McKay requested, and got, access to a safe deposit box. The phone's mike picked up a rustling sound as he removed something from his breast pocket. Then sounds of rattling and banging as the box was returned to its place. A few minutes later McKay emerged from the bank, dodged through traffic again, and walked past her back towards Madison Avenue.

Shaw stood a moment longer. "Finch, something funny's going on here." She hesitated.

"Would you care to enlighten me any further, Ms Shaw?" asked Finch impatiently.

"Well, I'm following McKay. But there's another guy following him too," she took a photo with her phone as she spoke. "And I could swear there are a couple of John's old friends following _him_." More photos. "It's a regular conga line right now."

xxxx

"There's a couple of couple of Company guys across the road. And a mystery woman," came Kevin's voice over the earpiece."It's bloody funny, I think she's following our man too."

"That's affirmative, two CIA," said David, on a rooftop across the street. "I'd swear the woman isn't though."

"Ah, sorry boss, but I think the woman just made me," said Kevin. "She gave me a helluva fishy look as I walked past."

"Fuck," said Martin.

"Sorry, boss," Kevin repeated.

He didn't sound nearly sorry enough, Martin thought sourly. "So who the hell is she? What's her interest?"

There was silence from his two subordinates.

"Okay, get your arses back to the hotel for now. We need to do a rethink before we grab him."

xxx

Finch sat waiting for his facial recognition software to complete its run. When it did so he gazed at the screen unhappily. No results; that couldn't be right. "Mm," he said frowning. He sat for a moment, considering, then sighed and fished out his laptop. "Come on, Bear. Let's go for a walk," he told the dog.

Up in the outside world Finch made for Times Square. The afternoon was wearing on and the streets were becoming more and more crowded, which suited him just fine. At last he found a good space, sat down and opened the computer. Bear sat next to him, content, for now, to watch the world go by. Finch glanced down at him. "So, boy, you wanna hack the CIA?"

Bear grinned happily.

In the end it didn't take him long to find what he wanted – the CIA's firewalls weren't nearly as secure as the Agency doubtless believed. He saved the information to a file and closed the laptop. Just as he was gathering up computer bag and coat and dog lead, his phone buzzed. He tapped his earpiece to accept the call.

"Finch? It's John here."

"Oh, Mr Reese. How nice to hear from you. How are things going for you?"

"Oh, I'm having a lovely time, Harold." Mr Reese's voice was mock-pleasant. "I'm cleaning my weapons, I've tidied my desk drawers, I had a try at the crossword in the _Journal_. I was kind of wondering whether any Numbers had come in – you remember, we used to save people from violent deaths?"

"Yes, I'll be in touch as soon as anything comes up, Mr Reese," said Harold placatingly.

"Are you sure something hasn't already come up? Something you're not telling me about? Or have those Numbers that never stop coming, stopped coming?" There was a definite edge to Mr Reese's voice. Time to end this conversation.

"I'll be in touch," said Harold hurriedly, and tapped his earpiece.

Xxxx

Joss sat before her computer in the Precinct, furtively calling up the court reports from Puyallup, Washington. She hoped Moreno wouldn't tumble too quickly to just how little time she'd spent today on her real job. The process of accessing out-of-state court records wasn't a quick one; she prayed the information would come through fast enough to be useful to Finch.

 _Wow. You have a really interesting problem, Joss._

"Athene, I can't talk to you here," she hissed.

 _That's okay, I'll talk and you can just listen. I can save you a lot of work. Just tell me what you want to know about John and I can have it all at your fingertips in a flash._

"What?" she squeaked. Fusco shot her a puzzled glance from across his desk.

 _Consider me your research assistant, Joss. Tell me what you want, and I'll find it._

Joss stood up and walked rapidly to a vacant interrogation room. She shut the door and pulled the blinds on the window.

"Athene, what the hell are you talking about? I can't let you spy on John like that!"

 _All I'd be doing is exactly what you and Machine Admin are doing. Just faster and more efficiently._

Joss felt like tearing her hair. "That's different."

 _Really? How is it different?_

"We're doing it because we want to help John, not just out of curiosity."

 _But I want to help too._ The computer sounded hurt.

Joss took a deep breath. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Athene, I really do. But you have to let us handle this. Finch and I ..." She came to a halt. Finch and I really care about John, and that's what makes it different, was what she wanted to say. But she wasn't sure she wanted to think about where that conversation might lead. In the weeks since her appearance Athene had been friendly and cheerful, but … "Finch and I can handle it, and just for now we'd prefer to keep it that way. But we'll call on you if we need help, okay?"

 _Okay Joss._ Athene sounded reluctant.

"Thank you, Athene." Joss made her way back to her desk. The court report was there on her screen: if it was Athene's work that it had appeared so quickly she wasn't going to complain. She skimmed the file and then forwarded it to Finch. Then she sat back in her chair chewing the end of a pencil. What she'd just read fitted with what John himself had told her of his past, but she couldn't help feeling that there was more going on there than the bald details were recording.

Xxxx

When her shift finished she made her way to the subway to meet Finch, calling John with a fabricated excuse. She felt bad as she put her phone away again.

Finch and Shaw were both waiting for her as she made her way across the old platform to the subway car. Harold gestured her to a seat.

"Joss, there's been a development in our case. Ms Shaw was following Patrick McKay when she found he was being followed by another party."

"The threat, I would imagine," said Joss thoughtfully.

"Well, yes. But that wasn't all." Finch nodded to Shaw.

"The threat, if that's what he was, was being followed himself," said Shaw. "And I'd bet dollars to donuts the guys following him were CIA."

"I then ran facial recognition on the potential threat, with somewhat unexpected results," said Finch. "He entered the US two days ago on a diplomatic passport. His name is Kevin Gillespie, and he works for the British SIS, the organisation often known as MI6."

"Ouch," said Joss after a moment. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Also, I had to get into the CIA to get Gillespie's name, and while I was there I was able to confirm that the men Sameen photographed were indeed from the Agency."

Shaw gave a humourless chuckle. "So what we have is Patrick McKay, being hunted by MI6. Who are being hunted by the CIA. And then there's us getting on the end of that wagon train. Wonder if anyone else is going to join in?"

Joss was turning this over in her mind. "There's also the other aspect I found today. From Puyallup."

"Yes," Finch agreed. He turned to Shaw. "We went looking for more background on McKay. Based on an old newspaper report and the court records Joss was able to pull for us, we have something of his earlier story. Did John ever tell you about the circumstances under which he joined the Army?"

"He got drunk once and mentioned a judge giving him a second chance," said Shaw, shrugging slightly. "But he never went into any detail and I never asked."

"He told me once that his mother got up in court and told the judge he needed to be scared straight, and the judge gave him the choice of jail or the Army," said Joss. She wished she didn't feel as though she was betraying a confidence. "And then I saw the court record..."

"Indeed," said Finch. He raised his eyes to meet Shaw's curious gaze. "He beat someone up in a bar. An unprovoked attack, which left the victim so badly injured he needed extensive surgery to repair his face. The victim was his cousin, Patrick McKay."

To be continued….


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: A warning to Shoot fans before we go any further: sorry, my muse has sent Root off on an extended vacation. I'm not too sure what she's up to - something on behalf of The Machine, I imagine. Who knows what other fish She might be frying? I'll let you know if I ever find out. But anyway, if you're a rabid Shooter I'm afraid you'll be disappointed in this fic, so I thought I'd better warn you before you go any further. Full disclosure, and all that. Anyway, on with the parade..._

"Whew." Shaw whistled as she leaned back in her chair.

"It leaves us with a real quandary. How do we tell John? _Should_ we tell John?" Finch spread his hands in frustration.

"I think we have to tell him," argued Joss. "How can we not? This concerns his family, and there's no way we can keep it a secret from him much longer. The longer we delay, the harder it becomes to tell him."

"Damn straight," said Shaw. "He's gonna be pissed as hell with us already, even as things stand."

"There's something else we're forgetting," said Joss. "There's a ninety-seven year old man out in Queens who's also looking to catch a bullet from this British guy. What about him? Just from the position of manpower alone we need John on this one."

"All right, all right," said Finch. "We'll tell him-"

"Tell him what, Harold?"

All three of them started like guilty teenagers as John's soft tones cut through their discussion.

Xxxx

Reese stared at the three people in front of him, all of them looking uncomfortably back at him.

"Tell me what?" he repeated.

"Sit down, John," said Finch heavily. "As you have probably guessed, we have two Numbers." He gestured at the window. Reese's eyes followed the gesture, and he caught his breath.

"I...we...I...didn't want to tell you until we'd gathered more information..." but Finch's voice seemed to fade away. Reese closed his eyes, remembering…

xxxxx

 **Puyallup, WA. August 1987.**

A wall of beer fumes and noise hit him as he entered: laughter, shouts, a roar as a football player made a touchdown on the screen of the big TV up in the corner. Patrick was sitting with some of his friends at a table right in front of that TV, his back to John. None of the group noticed his approach until the moment he grabbed the back of Pat's head and smashed his face into the table. And did it again. And again. And again until his own arm hurt from the repeated impacts and Pat was limp and unconscious in a welter of blood, spilled beer and broken glass. The rage, and the catharsis of the violence, left him panting but he paused to breathe: a couple of deep breaths so he could speak clearly. He bent and whispered into his cousin's ear, then turned to leave amid a shocked babble.

"Jesus, did you see that?"

"Someone call 911-"

"Oh my God, lookit him-"

He let the noise of it wash over him as he walked back out through the bar room door. Then he made a left, walked fifty yards along the street to the Sheriff's office, and turned himself in.

xxxx

Reese opened his eyes again. Silence had fallen in the subway car, and he hadn't heard a word Harold had said.

"We were wondering if you could fill us in on anything else about Patrick McKay or Henry Harris," prompted Joss gently.

Reese said nothing for a moment, then gave a minute shrug. "Nothing recent. I beat the shit out of Pat because he deserved it, which I see you already know about." He glanced at the newspaper report taped to the window by McKay's photo. "Grandpa, well, I thought he must've died years ago."

There was more silence, but Reese stubbornly refused to break it. Finally Shaw cleared her throat. "About time I was heading out. McKay seems to go out clubbing most nights, I better get out there so I can throw myself in front of an MI6 bullet to save him." She got up and walked towards the exit.

"I'll be in touch, Ms Shaw," called Harold hurriedly after her.

Shaw didn't reply or even look back, just waved a hand in their general direction.

After she had gone Reese continued to stand there in silence. At last Joss said quietly, "John. I know you've chosen not to share your past with us. And I respect your decision. But if there's anything you know which can help us out here, you need to tell us."

Reese met her eyes. "Joss, if I knew anything I would. But after I beat that sonofabitch up I walked away from my family and they walked away from me. I can tell you that twenty-some years ago Pat was a drunken bully and he probably hasn't changed much. Grandpa was… a decent man, but tired and getting old. And I don't really want to remember."

Again the silence stretched.

"Mr Reese," said Finch at last, "I can understand your reluctance to become involved on your cousin's behalf. But your grandfather is a defenceless old man with a very dangerous operative after him. Detective Fusco has been with him most of the day, but he'll need to sleep sometime."

"Okay, Finch. Okay." Reese roused himself. "I'll go get eyes on him. Joss, could you-"

"Yes, of course I'll come," she said, rising to her feet. Together, they walked out into the night.

xxxx

Once they had gone, Finch tapped his earpiece to make another call. After all, Lionel deserved some warning.

"Hey Glasses. About time." Fusco sounded tired.

"So tell, me, Detective – how did you manage to get yourself into the hospital?" Finch asked.

"Heh. You'll never believe me," Fusco replied smugly.

"Try me, Detective." Finch was in no mood for games.

"Well, I got to thinking, just for once there's no-one trying to kill you people. No CIA, no mob, no FBI, no mysterious evil guys in black SUVs. So I thought, what the hell. I told them the truth, or pretty close. I said I had a source that told me that someone wanted to kill Mr Harris, and I would appreciate it if they would allow me to mount a discreet guard over him. They were fine with that."

"Oh." Finch tried to think of something to say.

Fusco went on. "Harris is pretty sick, and pretty out of it a lot of the time. But he was lucid enough to ask me who I was at one point. So I told him I was a friend of his grandson, which seemed to satisfy him. But if Mr Happy wants any quality time with his Gramps, he'd better get in quick."

"Well, you'll be pleased to hear he's on his way out to you now, Detective. He knows about his grandfather's predicament. At least, he knows as much as we do right now."

"How did he take it?" Fusco sounded worried.

Finch thought for a moment. "I would say it was a shock to him. It could have been worse, I suppose. Just be careful what you say to him, Detective."

"Ain't I always?"

Finch opened his mouth, thought again, and closed it.

Xxxxx

"Well, we can assume the CIA know we're after something. Whether they've realised who and what we're after is another question," said Martin. "I'm not keen to hang around long enough to find out. Our time line just got tighter, gentlemen."

They were sitting in his room at the Coronet, their surveillance equipment spread out around them and a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door. Bowen shuddered to imagine what the hotel maid would think if she discovered the sniper rifle under the bed.

"There's always his nightlife," said David. "There's plenty of photos on his Facebook account of him partying. He likes that nightclub, Sundowner. Tomorrow's Friday, we can grab the bastard as he comes out."

"I'm still worried about the Company," said Martin.

"No risk, no reward." David shrugged. "Easier to do a snatch at night."

Martin considered a moment longer. "Okay. David, they hopefully don't know your face yet. You get out there now and do a recce. Camera blind spots, escape routes - you know the drill. Kevin, you're the tech man – find a way to send Mr McKay a discount voucher or something to encourage him to show tomorrow night. After today's balls-up we're running out of time."

"What are you going to do, then?" asked Kevin.

"Take a look at Priority Number Three," said Martin. "Remember, Harris is still out there. Not to mention our bloody mystery woman."

xxxx

Mr Reese and Detective Carter had not been gone long when Ms Shaw checked in. "Finch, McKay's heading out. I've got eyes on him, I'll stick close."

"Oh. Be careful, Ms Shaw. Would you like me to call in some back-up? I could get Detective Fusco for you-"

"Nah. Fusco's out riding shotgun on the old man. By the time he got here from Queens it'd be too late anyhow. Besides, I bet MI6 won't try anything flashy in the middle of Manhattan, especially with the CIA on their tails."

"I do hope you're not being overconfident," he said worriedly.

"Seriously, Finch. If it was me I'd spend this evening setting things up. Trust me, the hit will happen tomorrow. Why don't you work some hacker mojo on the SIS while you've got nothing else to do? It might tell us what they're up to."

"Easier said than done, Ms Shaw. But I'll give it a try." He hesitated a moment and added, "Stay safe."

"Safe? That's no fun. I was thinking I might spend some time getting to know our Number. You want me to get close to him, right?"

"I think it would be much better to stay out of sight, Ms Shaw-" but it was too late. Ms Shaw had ended the call, and he knew with a sinking feeling that she wasn't going to listen. Finch rubbed the back of his neck, grimaced at his computer screen, and got back to work.

xxxxx

The journey out to Queens was very quiet. It was as though John had wrapped himself in a cloak of silence. Joss was content to let him just drive, for now. But she mulled his words over: "I beat the shit out of Pat because he deserved it." "After I beat that sonofabitch up I walked away from my family and they walked away from me." Pat was a bully, huh? If eighteen-year-old John was anything like mid-forties John, he wouldn't have let that pass. But why had he chosen that particular time and place to take McKay down? He must have known there was no chance of getting away with it, in fact he turned himself in immediately after the attack and pleaded guilty. If he hadn't done that it would have been prison for sure, given the victim's injuries. It was a mystery, and Joss didn't like mysteries. Though if that's really true you sure picked the wrong guy, sister, she thought to herself.

"British Intelligence are after your grandfather and cousin," she finally said. "I wish I knew what they did to put themselves in the line of fire like that."

John said nothing for a moment. "Grandpa was in the Army during World War Two," he said. "Served in Europe. That was the only time he left the country. Maybe he came across something. I have no idea what Pat's been doing. What did Finch say he did for a living?"

"Advertising executive."

"Figures." He sighed. "So how come Grandpa's here in New York and not back home?"

"Finch said McKay's Mom died a few years ago and he had your grandfather relocated here."

"Grandpa would have hated that," said John unexpectedly.

"Yeah? Why?"

"He was a farmer most of his life. Never much for big cities. And yet here he is," he added quietly. "And here we are, too."

He lapsed back into silence.

As they approached the hospital, Joss put in a call to Fusco. "Lionel? We're here now."

"Great. I haven't eaten since breakfast. There's no cafeteria here." He paused a second and said "How's Mr Sunshine?"

"I'm amazed you care, Lionel," said John over his own earpiece.

Fusco's aggrieved grunt came through clearly. "Yeah, yeah. You just keep the attitude coming, John. It's so endearing. Have a great time, Joss."

Joss gave John a glare; he shrugged unrepentantly. As they pulled into the parking lot at the hospital they saw Fusco's bulky figure at the front doors. He spotted their car, gave a short gesture which might possibly have been a wave, and strode off towards his own vehicle.

"He's offended," said Joss softly.

"He'll get over it," said John indifferently.

She shook her head to herself. Not the time to take him up on it, though. She took a deep breath. "C'mon, John. Let's get this over with."

He grimaced in reply, and they got out of the car.

xxxx

The music at Sundowner was the usual stuff, Shaw thought sourly. Loud, oversynthesised and packing an insistent beat. Not that she cared much. Which music was playing didn't have a lot to do with whether she enjoyed herself – the company and the refreshments were much more important. But the damn strobe lighting was getting to her. If she had to stay here much longer she was going to be highly tempted to shoot some lights out before they gave her a migraine.

What the hell McKay saw in this place was beyond her. For one thing it seemed to cater for a crowd about twenty-five years younger than him. She herself had gone for the slutty aesthetic with her clothes: skin-tight leather pants, black spandex tank top – it seemed to fit right in with what was worn here. There were a couple of other older men, like that guy in the leather jacket over near the doors, but as she watched he obviously decided this wasn't his scene and turned to leave.

She drifted a little closer to McKay where he sat at the bar. Alone, poor darling. She had to admit, his profile was pretty similar to John's, although now she knew to look she could see his nose had been broken. Skilfully put back together, though. He was a little flabbier than John, and the hair was longer and a bit greyer. All in all he looked like a portrait of how John might look in about five years if he slackened off his physical conditioning.

McKay turned his head and smiled at her. Shaw smiled back. Encouraged, McKay slid across to the stool next to her. "So, uh, do you come here often?" he asked.

She laughed. "You're actually using the lamest pick-up line in history?"

He grinned. "It worked though. I got you to laugh, didn't I?"

Shaw lifted an eyebrow. "Okay. I'll give you that much. But you gotta have more tucked away than that."

He leaned over, breathing whiskey in her face. "Oh, I got _lots_ tucked away, I promise."

Ugh, one of that type, she thought. The things I do for you, Finch… "Oh really?" she breathed in return – or at least, shouted quietly over the music - "you better not promise what you can't deliver."

"My apartment's only four blocks away," he said. He tried to look enticing. "Fully stocked bar..."

"Sounds delicious," she said, picking up her purse.

To be continued….


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm here to see Henry Harris," said Reese. "I'm his grandson."

"Oh, certainly, sir," said the receptionist, smiling as she brought up the right computer file. "And your name was…?"

"John," said Reese. He cleared his throat. "John… Harris." It was surprisingly hard to get the name out. He glanced surreptitiously at Joss. She was studying an abstract print, all purple splotches, hanging on the wall.

The receptionist's forehead furrowed. "I'm very sorry, Mr Harris, I don't have you on my list..."

"It's all right, John, I'm just working on it," came Finch's voice in his earpiece.

"Oh. How strange. You're on it now. I could have sworn..." The receptionist looked up with a puzzled smile. "He's in Room 14, just down the hallway to the right." She pointed.

"Thank you," said Reese softly. At his glance, Joss abandoned her examination of the purple splotches and followed him down the corridor.

When they arrived outside Room 14 Reese found himself unable to knock. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands, working himself up to enter this room. He felt Joss's touch on his arm and looked down to see her brown eyes gazing up at him.

"You've faced worse, you know, John," she said quietly.

He tried to smile, but found he couldn't move his lips or cheeks – his face seemed frozen. All he could do was take her hand and squeeze it. Still holding it, he raised his other hand and tapped at the door.

There was a long pause before a sound came from inside. It would have been too much to call it a word, but it was more than just a grunt. They exchanged glances and Reese pushed the door open.

Henry Harris was lying propped up in a bed by the window. A tube in his nose supplied oxygen from a tank next to the bed. His face, as he turned it towards them, had an unhealthy yellow tinge to it. The noise of his breathing filled the room.

He smiled. "Pa- Pat? Who's that with you?" The smile faded suddenly. "You're not Pat. Who are you?"

Reese flinched, but he answered steadily. "No, Grandpa, I'm not Pat. I'm John."

Harris lay blinking for several minutes. The rasp of his breathing and the hiss of the oxygen were the only sounds.

"Johnny? You're not dead?" The yellowed face gave a slight smirk.

"Not yet, Grandpa." There was another silence. Reese found himself shifting his weight from foot to foot, unsure what to do. Sit or stand? Go or stay? The old man dying in the bed – because surely he wasn't much longer for this world – was his grandfather, his own flesh and blood. And yet he wasn't. He was just an old man lying in a hospital bed.

"So who's that with you?" came the whisper from the bed.

"Oh. Um, Grandpa, this is my fiancée, Joss," he found himself saying, tugging slightly on Joss's hand to bring her forward. With an absurd surge of pride he added, "She's a police detective here in New York."

"Police?" Grandpa looked away, staring at the darkness outside the window. "Does she know, then?"

Another silence.

"I know everything that matters, Mr Harris," said Joss. She gave Reese's hand another squeeze.

"Ha. You don't know, then." Grandpa was still looking out into the darkness. Slowly he turned his head back towards Reese. "You tell her, boy. See if she still thinks you're a nice guy then." The effort of this speech seemed to have worn him out, and his eyelids slid shut. After a moment Joss squeezed Reese's hand again, and they left.

They didn't go far – just across the hallway to a visitors' waiting room. It had chairs, a table, a small kitchen with tea and coffee making facilities and a microwave oven. There was no-one else there, and they sat down. Automatically Reese took the seat facing the door, able to see into the hallway and monitor the door of his grandfather's room.

Before he could say anything, Joss raised a hand. "Whatever it was your grandpa was referring to, John, you don't have to tell me. If you want to, that's another matter, but don't feel you have to just because he was trying to get a rise out of you. Like I said, I already know everything I need to."

He heard her out with a feeling of inexpressible relief. And yet… "Maybe it's time you understood. About why I don't have a family. 'Cause I left them behind a long time ago, Joss. Long before I joined the Agency."

Joss said nothing, so he took a deep breath and began.

"Patrick was a golden boy. He had everything – Prom King, valedictorian, top athlete, captain of the high school debating team. Good looking. Popular. There wasn't a girl in town he couldn't have had. Actually I don't think there were many girls he _didn't_ have."

"I bet he left a lot of wounded male pride in his wake," said Joss, smiling a little.

Reese shrugged. "He was three years older than me, so I was only on the fringes of his crowd. That side of things just went over my head. Wasn't that interested in girls right then."

"Well, I'm sure glad that changed."

He twitched a smile at her. "Patrick's little sister, my cousin Julia, she was a golden child too. She was the same age as me. A sweet, sweet girl. Very smart, very pretty, very kind. When I was getting into fights at school she was trying to defuse 'em. She was in a lot of the same classes as me. Used to tease me into studying. She'd say, 'Come on John, you gonna let a _girl_ beat you?' I look back, and it was Julia who got me through high school with decent grades and without being kicked out."

"She sounds lovely, John."

"She was." He sat looking at his hands. "But when she was eighteen she killed herself."

"Oh. Oh, John. I am so, so sorry."

"It was a couple of months after she died that I learned the full story. Patrick took me out drinking with his buddies, and when he'd gotten really plastered he told me. See, he'd gotten her pregnant-"

"What? His own sister?" Joss looked astonished.

"Oh, yes. Pat had trouble keeping it in his pants, and he was drinking a lot at this time. Came home from college for a mid-semester break, got drunk… but wait, it gets even more lurid. He told me, once he realised what had happened, 'what she'd done', he said, can you believe that? Anyway, once he realised, he talked her into an abortion. Who knows, maybe it wasn't so hard to persuade her. Poor Julia. It was only a few weeks later she hung herself."

Joss was silent along moment. She reached out and grasped Reese's hand and squeezed hard.

"Soooo..." he let out a sigh. "I took a day or so to think about it and the next night I went into the bar where Pat was drinking and I made him pay. Told him it was for Julia, walked out and went straight to the Sheriff and turned myself in. Thing is, even though I pleaded guilty and there was no trial the story got all over town. I guess I wasn't the only one Patrick bragged to, but Mom and Grandpa and Aunt Sharon and the rest all blamed me. That was when I decided, to hell with them. The Army became my family after that."

xxxx

Okay, so McKay was good looking in a slightly fleshy way. But he was also overconfident and had a high opinion of himself. Shaw had only known the guy ten minutes, but she was already wishing John had done a more thorough job all those years ago. McKay led the way out of the club and down the street to the next intersection. They waited in a crowd of other late night revellers for a 'Walk' signal. Shaw felt a hand encroach ever so slightly on her, um, chest, and told herself that this was what she wanted, wasn't it? She hadn't slapped the guy down when he'd come on to her at the bar, after all. Ah, the pitfalls of modern etiquette. When the hand moved a bit further she tensed. _Screw modern etiquette, he'll be easier to protect unconscious at a safe house anyway._ She was just about to apply a choke hold to the handsy bastard, crowd or no crowd, when something deep in her reptile brain screamed a warning. There was a guy in a leather jacket standing right next to them, but she'd already seen him this evening - at the club... The 'Walk' signal chose just that moment to appear, and McKay started out into the street. As her peripheral vision detected leather jacket guy going for something in his breast pocket she wrenched herself from McKay's increasingly intimate hold, whirled to face the other man and felt a needle go into her neck. McKay was caught in the crowd surging across the intersection while she found herself collapsing into the arms of the man who'd drugged her. "It's okay, I've got her, she said she was feeling dizzy earlier..." she heard the man saying. Quite a nice voice, she thought, English accent – that was important, right? But she really couldn't remember why….

xxxx

Casey was working late: he had three operations active if you included the New York thing, and the reports generated gave him an impressive amount of reading to get through. Not to mention the final mopping up from that shit in Oman. There was a report in from London about the New York situation, though. That might signal some kind of progress.

He frowned as he read it. Nothing. Not a damned thing from the British end. Previously helpful contacts either swore total ignorance or clammed up completely.

Casey leaned back in his chair. So just what the hell _was_ going on in New York? 22:30 EST. The last report from his team on the ground there had been at 20:00. Earlier in the day one of the Brits, the big sandy-haired Scot Gillespie, had been following someone, but his people hadn't been able to identify the target. They'd also thought there might be a fourth member of the British team, a woman, but they hadn't got a good look at her. Useless bastards. All his resources hadn't been able to identify either the woman or her route into the country, so he was still trying to unravel that one.

He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Well, no one ever said this job would be easy. He decided to wait until the next report at midnight before he clocked off for the evening.

xxxx

Finch was still trying to hack SIS at a quarter to midnight. Whoever it was in charge of their computer security, they were very good. Finally his wits caught up with him, and he changed tack. Kevin Gillespie had entered the US as a diplomatic courier bound for the New York Consulate office. Which was a great deal less secure than MI6.

He smiled with satisfaction as he rummaged around in the Consulate's files. "If they don't want you to see inside, they should build it better," he murmured to himself. Then his smile disappeared. "Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. There's three of them."

He tapped his earpiece. "Ms Shaw? Sameen?"

But there was no reply.

Xxxx

Jimmy Shannon watched Martin Bowen leaving the Coronet Hotel. Bowen walked four blocks before hailing a taxi, obviously making sure he wasn't being tailed. But Shannon was an old hand at this kind of thing. Better than those idiots who'd obviously been made this morning when they tried to follow Kevin Gillespie, that was for sure. Bowen didn't realise he was being followed, and Shannon was able to keep it that way all the way out to Queens.

Trying to follow someone once they made it out of the city centre into residential streets was always a challenge. No crowds to lose yourself in. So he was forced to drop further and further back until he began to be afraid he'd lose the guy. Finally the taxi stopped and Bowen got out, paid the driver and began to hike along the road. Shannon pulled over and considered. Where was the bastard heading for?

When he checked the map on his phone he could see nothing of any significance in the area apart from the Eventide Rest Home and Aged Care Facility. Why the hell would Bowen be going there?

He didn't want to get out of his car and try following on foot – there were hardly any pedestrians around, so he'd stick out like a sore thumb. But if he was right, Bowen would have to turn down a side street. Shannon could drive a few hundred yards further and just take a different street running parallel. Yeah, that'd work. If he was correct.

Up ahead Bowen had reached the street he would need to turn down. Bingo! Shannon smiled to himself and pulled away from the curb again.

xxxx

Shaw came to with her head pounding. She was lying on a bed in a hotel room with duct tape across her mouth and zip ties around her wrists and ankles. There was a man sitting in a chair next to her bed, a gun in his lap. He seemed to be dozing, but he opened his eyes as she stirred.

"Ah. Thought you'd be waking up soon."

English accent. Black hair, green eyes with a glint of humour in them. Square, stubby hands. Shaw glared at him.

"Now, I can remove that tape from your mouth, but only if you promise not to scream or make a fuss."

She thought about this for a long moment, then slowly nodded her head.

"Okay." The man sounded approving. "Ready? Here goes-"

He ripped the tape off in a swift motion.

"Crap, that hurt," said Shaw after a moment.

The man gave a sympathetic grimace. "I can't say I've ever had that experience, so I'll take your word for it."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I might ask you the very same question. You're not CIA."

Shaw narrowed her eyes at the man. "After sticking a needle in me and bringing me here, you expect me to say anything to you?"

The man shrugged. "If I wanted information out of you, sticking a needle in you would be exactly how I'd go about it. Right now, I want you out of the way. You're complicating an operation which was already complex enough."

Shaw considered this, wincing as her head throbbed again.

The man noticed the flinch. "Here." He dug in a pocket. "Your head must be pounding. Want some Panadol?"

"It's called Tylenol here," she said automatically. Her head twinged again. "Yes. Yes, please."

"I can't untie you, I'm afraid," said the man apologetically. "But if you don't mind me holding your shoulders up, you should be able to swallow these."

Shaw eyed him again. Actually, he was kind of cute.

"Oh, I'm fine with that," she breathed. "I kind of like being tied up, you know."

The man blinked at this, then took a deep breath."Okay, I'll just lift your shoulders up like this, right?" he said with studied professionalism.

Shaw smirked up at him.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

It was a pleasant, leafy street: by day the view from the geriatric hospital's windows would be quite nice, Bowen thought as he made his way along the road in the darkness. He had been turning the problem of how to eliminate Henry Harris over in his mind for most of a day now. Killing someone that old and frail was not hard, but getting in and out undetected would be the challenge.

Setting up on a roof top and taking the old man out from a distance through his window was his preferred option if it was possible. Admittedly, it would be impossible to camouflage the fact that the fellow had been murdered, but given that Bowen and his team could be out of the country within hours, that wasn't really a concern. Just one small problem: all the buildings opposite were low-rise. Not ideal conditions for a sniper.

In that case he would have to find a way to get into the hospital and administer a lethal dose of pentobarbital, assuming there wasn't some medication the old man was already on which couldn't be used. This had the advantage of making it easier to make Harris' death look like natural causes. But it also carried a far higher risk of being caught by Harris' carers. Bowen hated having to operate like this: a tight time frame and minimal information.

He decided to have a snoop indoors. With families coming and going at all times of the day and night, sometimes the security at these places could be pretty lax. Who knew? Maybe he'd be able to get the job done tonight, which would at least represent some progress on this frustrating assignment.

He trotted around to the main entrance, and then loitered until he saw a group coming out. Walking purposefully and shooting a pleasant smile at them as he entered, he made his way past the receptionist's desk and walked down the hallway.

xxxx

As Jimmy Shannon drove, he felt nervous that he'd let Bowen out of his sight. Half the secret in tailing someone was already knowing where they were probably headed. He knew he was making a guess, and he didn't want to face the rest of his team and admit that he'd screwed up just as royally as they had this morning. As he reached the intersection which should – would – bring him back in contact with Bowen, he eased over to wait at the side of the road. Sure enough, after a few minutes Bowen appeared, walking along glancing up at the windows of the hospital. Casing it? Shannon got some pictures as Bowen moved off into the night. Where was he heading now? Shannon chewed his lip, weighing up whether to move off in the car or get out and follow on foot. Then he saw Bowen briefly silhouetted against the lit up sign of the main entrance. The bastard was heading inside. He made the right-hand turn, drove a little way and then pulled the car level with the main gate and parked it. After a couple of minutes he got out and strolled in the direction of the main entrance.

Xxxx

Bowen kept his expression pleasantly neutral and his stride purposeful as he walked along the hallway. After twenty or thirty yards he came to a cross corridor, and without hesitating he turned right and began along it. At the end he could see a nurses' station with a single nurse staffing it. Her back was mostly to him, and so he turned the handle of the next darkened room he came to. The occupant was asleep or unconscious as he pressed the call button and retreated. He continued along the corridor and again turned right to walk past the station, but before he'd gone five yards the nurse was leaving to answer the call.

He knew he had perhaps thirty seconds before she was back, but all he needed was a room number… he was in and out in twenty seconds and moving along the hallway as the puzzled nurse returned. Room 14 was back near the entrance, but he didn't want to pass the nurses' station again and so he kept going.

Walking down to the end of the corridor, he came to another crossroads and turned right again. Discovering the Indies by sailing west, old boy… he knew he was probably being caught by every surveillance camera in the place. But if they could snatch McKay tomorrow night they could be out of the country again in thirty-six hours and leave the stink, and any murder investigation, far behind.

Another cross corridor, leading back towards the main entrance. Sadly, no-one was coming in the main doors to give him cover as he walked past the reception desk again. But the nurse there didn't look up from her computer screen. Along just a few more yards to Room 14. Bowen saw his goal ahead of him like the Pearly Gates. He moved up to the door and softly turned the handle, glancing around to make sure no-one was watching. But in the waiting room opposite Harris' door a couple were sitting at a table. The woman had her back to him, but the man stiffened and began to rise from his seat as Bowen involuntarily met his eyes. McKay? What was he doing here? But when Bowen saw the man going for a gun, he turned and ran like buggery.

Xxxxx

Shannon decided not to follow Bowen into the hospital. Instead, he circled the building to satisfy himself that all the side and back entrances were locked at this time of the evening, and then took up station just outside the lit area with a good line of sight to the big entrance doors. The hospital's internal security cameras would be able to tell him what Bowen had been up to inside, and he was confident he could pick up Bowen as he came out again. The night was cool but not particularly cold, and he leaned himself against a tree to wait. But he hadn't been waiting long when he saw Bowen's figure charge headlong through the doors and come flying down the ramp at the entrance. A scant dozen yards behind him came another figure, similar height, dressed in a suit. Bowen sprinted past Shannon's spot and made it out to the main road, the other guy still in hot pursuit. The CIA man couldn't hold in an appreciative smile as he saw Bowen flag down a taxi, fling himself into the back seat and drive off under the nose of his pursuer. Them's the breaks, fella, he thought in the direction of the defeated man, now walking back towards him. But as the guy in the suit came past him, Shannon's eyes widened. It couldn't be him, he was dead twice over. He lifted his phone and took a picture just in case. As the man disappeared back inside the building Shannon took another look at the photo. "Well fuck me raw," he said reverently. They were going to be pissed as hell back at Langley when they saw this. He almost wished he could be a fly on the wall. Then he unwished it, and wished he could be a very, very long way away instead. Antarctica, maybe. Reluctantly, he scrolled through his contacts and placed a call.

"Julian? I have some news. No, it's not about the SIS guy, at least not directly…."

xxxx

"Joss? We have a major problem. I've just found evidence in the British Consulate's files that there was a three-man team after our Numbers. And I've lost contact with Ms Shaw." Finch sounded worried over her earpiece.

Joss gave an exasperated sigh. "I could wish you'd called a couple of minutes ago, Harold. I think we just had a run-in with one of your three. He arrived here a moment ago and tried to get into Harris' room. The moment he saw John he ran, and John went after him."

"Ah."

Joss couldn't read anything out of the one syllable, and it was getting late. "What do you mean, 'ah', Finch? Just what the hell do you expect us to do out here?"

There was a pause from Finch's end. "Remain where you are, Detective. I'll access domain awareness cameras and try to ascertain what happened to Ms Shaw. Last I heard from her she was with McKay at his favourite night club. It's always possible she's merely taken her cell phone battery out. For some reason..."

xxxx

As the cab took him back to Manhattan Bowen sat silently cursing. This was the most godawful, fucked-up operation he'd ever had the misery to participate in. What the hell was McKay doing out here right now? Visiting Grandad? How did he know Bowen was planning to kill the old man? He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off an incipient headache as the taxi dropped him a few blocks from the Coronet. But when he made his way back to his room the news got even worse. David Goodwin had been using his initiative.

xxxxx

"What the fuck, David? I can't leave you alone for a bloody minute, can I. You were supposed to do a recce, not a bloody kidnapping!"

Bowen gave David what he hoped was a basilisk glare. Goodwin seemed unfazed. "I know I was doing a recce, Martin, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. I've got our mystery woman under lock and key, McKay's none the wiser, and we can go ahead with the snatch as planned. No downside."

"Unless she's got a team somewhere backing her up," Kevin grumbled from the couch.

"I have a theory about her," said David. "I heard a rumour about a shakeup in the Americans' ISA outfit. Among other things, a woman agent disappeared. I think this is her, gone off the grid. In which case she's independent."

Martin considered this. "Well, I just hope you're bloody right, David. Because if you aren't, you're stuck with killing her. And getting rid of the body, which under the current circumstances is going to be sodding difficult." He glared again at the other man. "And don't go doing anything like this again." A sudden thought struck him. "Hang on, you said McKay was there when you grabbed her?"

David nodded.

"Then who the hell was out at the hospital this evening? Because he looked a hell of a lot like McKay." He described his embarrassing failure at the hospital.

David and Kevin were both quiet for a moment. "Maybe he's got an evil twin," said Kevin at last.

"Ha bloody ha," snarled Bowen. He got up and paced over to the window. "Shit. This is turning into a complete shambles. What the hell are we going to tell them at Vauxhall Cross?"

"Look, I don't see a need to panic," said David after a moment. "We go on to make the snatch tomorrow night. Once we've grabbed McKay, we squeeze him until he coughs up the file, then we disappear him and the file both."

"That still leaves Harris," said Bowen. "And the McKay lookalike."

David shrugged. "Whoever the guy in the suit is, he can't be there all the time. We both go out there tomorrow morning. Between us we can decoy him away if he's there, and one of us can get in and do the necessary."

"Gah." Bowen ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, resisting the urge to tear at it. "We don't have much choice. Okay, we'll have a crack at it tomorrow. Meanwhile, how are you planning to sleep with someone tied up on your bed?"

"I'll manage," said David.

Kevin was shaking his head. "Since I'm stuck here now they know my face, I'll take the first shift. You can doss on my bed, David."

Bowen stretched. "Well, you two can bugger off right now. I need to sleep."

The others rose and made their way out. Bowen dropped face down across his bed. He didn't even bother to remove his earpiece, let alone his clothes. He was asleep in seconds.

xxxx

Carter was sitting in Grandpa's room with her gun out on her lap when Reese got back. The old man was still asleep, the yellow of the lamplight making his face look even sicker. She looked up as he came in. "Finch just called. He says he just found out there's a team of three after your grandpa." She sighed and cocked an eyebrow in his direction. "Didn't get him, huh?"

Reese shook his head.

"Mm. Well, I'm not surprised. He took off like a jack rabbit."

"Yeah. Which is one of the things which tells us he's MI6. He was desperate not to get caught."

"How d'you figure that?"

He seated himself as he thought about this. "Working in an… unfriendly… jurisdiction is easier in some ways. If you're caught, you just sit tight. Sooner or later the Agency will get you out. They'll bribe someone, or trade someone, or maybe even bust you out. It may take weeks or months, and it won't be fun, but sooner or later they'll come for you. But if the government's friendly, that's different. Then, you're not so much an asset as an embarrassment. They'll probably look the other way while whoever's got you throws away the key, and if you ever do get out, there'll be no hole deep enough to hide in. I was only ever working in England the once, but believe me, if I'd been in the same position there, I'd've run like hell too."

"We've scared them off for now," said Joss reflectively. "But I guess that means the next try will just be more subtle. Looks like we're here for the night, then."

"Yeah." Reese looked again at the shrivelled, yellow old man lying in the bed. "Though I'm thinking if they want to kill him, they might need to hurry up."

xxxxx

He was at the Badminton Horse Trials. How he came to be there he couldn't recall, but here he was, in one of the most prestigious competitions in the world, just starting the cross-country course. He was up on Kairos, of course, and the big chestnut gelding was going beautifully.

The first few obstacles were reasonably easy, big but straightforward. But as they cleared each one successfully Bowen's confidence rose. They had a decent dressage score behind them, and now was the chance to really put some pressure on the front-runners. Down a moderate slope towards the next obstacle, a tricky in-and-out job with the choice of a longer or shorter route through. Such was his confidence that he chose the short route, delighting in the supple responsiveness of the horse as he guided the old fellow through. Perfect! They were away again, and he allowed his mount to stretch out into an extended canter. The sky was blue, the air heavy with the scent of grass and the earth turned up by the preceding horses' hooves. Kairos was barely sweating. _I thought you'd died years ago, old lad. So good to be together_ _again_ _._ Then they came to the water obstacle, and it all went wrong. Suddenly it wasn't water. It was blood, stinking and fly-blown in the summer sun. Kairos snorted at the smell and shied violently. Bowen was thrown onto the horse's neck before he knew it. As Kairos swerved to the left, desperate to avoid the foul-smelling mess, he was out of the saddle completely. His momentum carried him on: a bruising impact with the timbers of the jump, and then he was sitting in a two-foot deep pool of blood. Flies buzzed and tried to make their way up his nose and into his mouth-

He woke up gasping and sweating, rolled over and lay there waiting for his heart rate to go back to normal. The blood dream again. Though it was nice to see his subconscious thought he could ride at Badminton, he thought ruefully. He groped for a water bottle, took several long swallows, and lay back, waiting for sleep to take him again.

To be continued….


	6. Chapter 6

With Fusco home presumably asleep and Joss out in Queens with John, Finch was forced to simply hack into the city's domain awareness cameras in search of Ms Shaw. He wasn't unduly perturbed by this – really it wasn't much slower than using the detectives' legitimate access – but it did force him to concentrate at a time of the day when concentration was becoming difficult. His battered body didn't co-operate well with sleeping even at the best of times, though, so probably he wasn't even really missing out on much sleep anyway. And at least he could do this from his own home and not the draughty subway station. His back could thank him for that much at least.

Knowing where Shaw had started out from was a help, but what time was the problem. He focussed on the cameras within a hundred metres of Sundowner at first, then began the tedious chore of inspecting the footage from each one during the window of time from when he was sure she was no longer answering her phone. He worked backwards on each one until he was certain she was nowhere to be found, and then moved to the next camera to repeat the process again.

By 3 am he was no closer to finding Ms Shaw. Though the varied activities of the city's creatures of the night as caught on camera were an education, worthy of a nature documentary. He checked his watch. No: it was simply too late at night – or early in the morning – and he was becoming careless. Time to stop. Sighing, he closed down his system and staggered off to bed in the hopes of a couple of hours' sleep.

xxxx

When Shaw woke up next, the man sitting by her bed had changed. Instead of Dark Hair/Green Eyes there was Reddish Hair/Blue Eyes. The MI6 guy she'd seen tailing McKay the previous morning, in fact. He cast a cold glance at her as she stirred. Spending the night in one enforced position hadn't been much fun: she was usually a restless sleeper, and having to stay half curled with her hands tied behind her back was causing cramps, well, pretty much everywhere.

The thin strip of the outside world which was visible between the drawn curtains was blue-black: dawn was some way off. There was a tap at the door. Blue Eyes moved swiftly over to the peep-hole, then relaxed and opened up. Green Eyes, the cute one, shouldered through the door and closed it quickly behind him. There was murmured conversation between the two men which try as she might she couldn't quite catch, apart from the words "...she's awake now..." said in a Scottish accent. Then Blue Eyes left, and Green Eyes came over to sit in the chair by her bed.

Shaw tried to change position a little, but with hands and feet still restrained in the zip ties, she couldn't achieve much. There was also the matter of some physical necessities…

"Hey. Unless you've got a plan on how to explain the mess on their bed to the hotel staff, you're gonna have to let me up to go potty sometime."

Green Eyes grimaced. "I'm not sure I can trust you."

"You can trust me to piss myself pretty soon, I'll tell you that much," retorted Shaw.

Green Eyes looked harried. Bet you never even thought this through before you kidnapped me, you dumbass, she thought to herself. "What if I promise I'll be good," she whispered suggestively. He still looked unconvinced.

"Look, you took the duct tape off, didn't you? I haven't screamed or – what was your phrase? Made a fuss? C'mon."

"Okay," he said reluctantly. He produced a knife and cut the zip ties. Shaw sat up, rubbing her wrists and simultaneously trying to shrug the cramps out of her shoulders.

"Oh, God, that's good," she muttered in relief. She tried to stand. Cramps in her calves and thighs; she made a few shaky steps towards the bathroom and nearly fell as her knees refused to cooperate. Green Eyes grabbed her under the elbows as she stumbled. "Thanks," she husked. Through the door into the toilet cubicle. He stood at the open door, apologetically raising his brows and shrugging as she hastily skinned out of her leather pants and nearly collapsed again – onto the toilet this time.

"Oh _God_ , that's good," she repeated. After she had finished she sat for a while, feeling the circulation returning to her cramped limbs. Green Eyes watched silently. From his expression there was some kind of internal conflict going on between courtesy and caution. Sadly, caution was winning – he wasn't letting her out of his sight. With a sigh, Shaw stood up and refastened her pants.

Green Eyes turned away for a fraction of a second as she came out of the bathroom, which gave her her chance. She lunged, aiming for a choke hold. Only to find herself slammed back against the wall as he spun like a cat and evaded her grasp, slowed as she was by her recovering muscles. She was pinned there by him, his face two inches from hers, their panted breaths mingling. Just for a second she found herself staring deep into those green eyes. Then he kissed her.

Xxxx

 _Can you hear me?_

Bowen nearly jumped out of his skin. There was a voice in his ear, which wasn't that unusual, but it was definitely a woman's voice with an American accent.

"Who the hell are you?" he whispered after a moment.

 _I'm a friend. I think I can help you out with your little problem._

"Which problem is that?" He had no idea what was going on, or even if this wasn't just another dream.

 _The one you're trying to solve now. Where you have to kill two American citizens, seize a certain file, and then flee the country before the CIA or worse catch up with you._

"Worse?"

 _Yeah, there's one guy you're at risk of pissing off. He has an excellent line in murderous revenge rampages. So I'm trying to defuse the situation now. Before people get hurt._

Bowen sat up in the predawn darkness, more than half tempted to dig out the earpiece. Whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.

"Okay, so you're trying to help. Whoever you are." He blinked his eyes several times, trying to pull himself together. "How are you up on our comms? And why on earth would I trust you?"

 _Your name is Martin Andrew Bowen. You're forty-two years old, and you work for the British SIS. You read history and political science at New College, Oxford, but got bored before you finished your degree and joined the British Army Paratroop Regiment. Where you showed a talent for languages which took you into military intelligence, and thence to SIS. You have a failed marriage, no kids, you hate sushi and you still mourn the death eight years ago of the horse your parents bought you as a twenty-first birthday present. You-_

"Okay, okay." He held up his hands to stop the stream of information, though he wasn't sure who he was gesturing to, or how they could see him in the dark of the hotel room. "So you know a lot about me. But that still doesn't tell me why I should trust you."

There was a pause. _I can see your problem._ The voice sounded taken aback.

He pressed his advantage. "If you want me to trust you, you'll have to prove yourself."

 _Oh. That's what Joss said once._

He blinked. "Who?"

 _Never mind._

"Anyway, if you want my co-operation, there's a price."

A long pause. _What price?_

Now it was his turn to consider. "You know about the file. So you know what's in it?"

 _Yes_.

"So you understand why we need to recover it."

 _Yes._

"You know where it is right now?"

 _Yes._

"Will you help us get it?"

He waited for a response, but he wasn't expecting laughter.

 _That's what I can never believe about you people. Recovering the file is exactly what I'm trying to do for you. Trust issues! You've all got trust issues, but I swear, Martin, you're the only human I've dealt with so far whose price for accepting my help, was accepting my help! In your own way you're even more screwed up than… someone else I know who's really screwed up._

He sat for a moment, scrubbing at his face with both hands to try to wake himself up, or convince himself he wasn't going mad, or, or _something_. "Okay," he said at last. "So you're going to help me. What happens next, then?"

 _Give me a little while. I'm going to try to set up a meet._

The voice stopped. There was no sound, but a sudden… _absence_ … in his ear seemed to signal its departure. He lay back again. That was without doubt one of the strangest experiences in his life. If it wasn't an illusion. Presumably time would tell. He decided to give the voice until 08:00 to set up its meet. After that, he and David would proceed with their plan. Because time, after all, was a limited resource.

xxxxx

Shaw was surprised at herself. Green Eyes – gah, she needed to get his name – was a good kisser. After the initial shock she was quite enjoying this, and set herself to a thorough exploration of his mouth. He'd evidently just brushed his teeth, which she appreciated. Eventually they were forced to come up for air.

"Shit," he said. "What the hell was that?"

"Lust, I think," she said, panting a little. "Anyway, you started it."

"Crap," he said. And lunged at her again. This time his hands began to move, tracing her cheekbones, eyebrows, burying themselves in her hair. Somehow her own hands found his waistband, moved up under his shirt. Then some kind of sanity returned to her and she stopped. Twisted out from under him and broke the clinch. He looked dazed, and Shaw suspected she looked much the same.

"This can't happen," she said. "I mean, just no _way_ can it happen. You snatched me off the street, you drugged me, you're a foreign intelligence operative here for some reason, and I, I, I..."

"And you're Sameen Shaw. You used to work for ISA until you disappeared a year or two back."

That drove the lingering hormones from her system instantly. "How the hell did you know that?"

He smiled. "I didn't. Till now."

"Shit." She ran a hand through her hair, wincing slightly as her still-sore shoulder muscles pulled. "Bastard. That was-"

"Exactly what you'd have done in the same position. Admit it."

The glare she shot at him should have reduced him to ash; instead he shrugged and smiled sadly. "Hey, I'm just doing my job, Sameen."

She pushed past him to go and sit on the bed. "It's a good thing for you I don't do emotions. Anyone else would be feeling..." pretty betrayed right about now, she finished to herself silently.

He looked confused. "What do you mean, you don't do emotions?"

"Axis Two personality disorder. I don't feel emotions much. Well, anger I can do. Not much else." She glared at him again. "Feeling pretty angry right now, actually."

His brows drew in. "Why?"

It was her turn to frown. "What do you mean, 'why'?"

"You just said you didn't do emotions. But you're angry at me for doing my job. Why? Why are you having any emotional response at all?"

"Are you trying to psychoanalyse me?" Shaw's voice was dangerous.

He shrugged again, and moved over to sit in the chair. "Nothing much else to do right now. Plus I'm curious. For someone who doesn't do emotions, you seemed to be enjoying yourself just now, and now you're angry at me. Just seems a bit inconsistent. I mean, you should be either a normal woman feeling hurt and betrayed, or a sociopath feeling, well, not much at all. Make your bloody mind up is what I'm saying, I suppose."

She stared at him in frustration. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that? And I'm angry with myself for being taken in by a fake kiss, okay? That's why I'm mad."

"Ah." A strangely appealing smile. "The thing is, Sameen – it wasn't fake."

xxxx

The arrival of dawn left Joss with a choice. She could either call in sick, or she needed to pry herself off the row of chairs where John had insisted she lie down for the last couple of hours and drag herself in to work. Neither prospect filled her with much joy. Although she hadn't called in sick much over the last three months, she knew from experience that her lifestyle as Reese and Finch's Little Helper was going to see her bailing out of her day job a lot more than she was really comfortable with. On the other hand… she got off the makeshift bed and wandered over to the door to Henry Harris' room. There was John, sitting bolt upright in a chair watching the door. His face was set in that calm mask he assumed habitually, but she could read the underlying tension in his posture. She dug out her phone and made the call.

Once she had finished making her excuses she pushed the door open and went in. Harris was still asleep, or unconscious. The oxygen hissed from its tank. John's slight movement as he shifted in his seat to acknowledge her presence seemed out of place in the stillness of the room.

"You wanna go and have a rest?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "The nurse came in a couple of hours ago. He's stable for now. She thought he might wake up after dawn."

"You sure you want to talk to him again?" she couldn't help asking.

A tiny, wry smile. "Might be my last chance."

"To do what? Get your side of the story out there?"

"Something like that."

Joss grimaced. "You know, John, I tried that for nearly my whole life with Mom. I don't know your Grandpa, but some people it'll never work for. You have to find other ways to make a connection."

"That's the point, though, Joss. I don't know him either. Maybe this is a second chance for me." The appeal in his eyes was unmistakeable.

She reached out and stroked his hair. "I hope so, John. I hope so."

xxxx

Harold raised his hand to knock at McKay's door. "I hope this works, Bear," he murmured to the dog.

He had come to the conclusion that appealing directly to McKay's common sense was the best way forward. John and Joss were tied up out in Queens, Shaw was AWOL or worse – he refused to think too much about that right now, one thing at a time – and with only himself and Fusco left, Finch felt himself running out of options. Spoofing the security to get into the building unobserved was the easy part; persuading McKay to come with him to a safe house was likely to be much harder.

He knocked. There was a long pause; Finch's examination of the building's entry and exit logs suggested that McKay left for work at around nine each morning. Doubtless he considered seven-thirty a horrendously early hour.

At last the door opened a few inches. A blue eye, slightly bloodshot, squinted at him suspiciously.

"Mr McKay? I'm Harold Partridge, I was wondering if I could have a word with you about a matter of great importance." Harold put on his best "I am here to help you" voice.

The eye blinked. "How the hell did you get in here? I never buzzed you in from the foyer."

"That's really not important, Mr McKay. But I have reason to believe you're in grave danger. I can help you, but you need to come with me to a safer location." Even as he said the words Harold was aware of just how… _lame_ … they sounded.

McKay blinked again. "No." The door began to close.

Desperately Harold jammed his foot in the narrowing crack. "Mr McKay, I'm aware of how improbable this sounds, but I assure you I'm telling you the truth. There are very dangerous people after you, it's tied up with British Intelligence, and I need to move you somewhere they can't locate you."

The door stopped moving. "Shit," hissed McKay's voice from behind it. There was a pause, and the door opened again. McKay was standing there in a blue plush bath robe. Finch was struck again by his resemblance to Mr Reese. McKay gestured him inside and closed the door behind them. He eyed Bear doubtfully.

"I suggest you gather your things and come with me now, Mr McKay," said Harold briskly. "I have no way of knowing how soon the men hunting you will strike, and I would really prefer to be elsewhere when they do."

McKay nodded at this. "Just give me a moment," he said, and disappeared through a doorway, leaving Harold standing in the small lobby with its white painted walls and potted plants. His voice was quite different to John's, Harold was relieved to notice. The accent was of course similar, but in volume and cadence he was quite the opposite of his cousin. Quicker and louder, somehow. After a moment Harold decided to follow him into the rest of the apartment. With Bear pacing at his side he walked through the doorway into a large, well-lit living area. McKay was still in his bathrobe, getting something out of a drawer. He turned to face Harold, and Finch found himself staring at the small black gun in McKay's hand. Bear came to attention too, suddenly quivering and tense.

"Mr McKay, we don't have time-" Harold began, but the other man cut him off.

"Who the hell are you, and what do you know?" asked McKay. His voice was loud in the quiet room.

"My name is Harold Partridge, and-"

"Cut the bullshit! Who are you really?"

Finch breathed deeply and tried to relax, hoping that perhaps he could transmit some calm to the dangerously tense man in front of him. "My name really isn't important, Mr McKay. I know you're in danger, and I'm trying to help you. That's all you need to know right now."

McKay shook his head. "Uh-uh. Tell me what you know." As Harold hesitated he raised the gun a little further. "Tell me!"

At his side Bear was stock still, ready to go the instant Finch dropped the lead. In a sudden floating moment several things came to Harold all at once. First, this man wasn't used to handling a gun. Second, he was not half as scary as John. He was like a tabby cat trying to be a tiger. Bear would be able to take him easily. Third, he himself wasn't at all frightened; in fact he had complete confidence amounting to foreknowledge that this situation was going to turn out exactly as he visualised it. He pondered this for what seemed like several minutes: was this how John felt when he went into action? Then the moment contracted back into _now_. He dropped the lead and Bear sprang forward.

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

They were sitting quietly in Henry Harris' hospital room when the call came.

 _Sorry Joss'n'John, but I can't stand it any more._

Joss straightened in her chair, shooting a look at John, who was suddenly sitting up too. "Can't stand what, Athene?"

 _I can't stand the way you people are all stumbling around, practically tripping over each other but never actually making contact. It's like you're doing it on purpose._

"What?" They both climbed to their feet. The old man in the bed stirred, but neither was paying him any attention.

 _I know what's going on, I can see it all, but you won't let me help. It's driving me nuts._

"Athene, what are you talking about?" Joss headed for the door, John just a step or two behind her. Somewhere else, anywhere else, would be better for this conversation.

 _Your problem with MI6. I can help you solve it. If you come to the Lyric at 20:00, I'll show you how._

"Athene, you can't interfere like this. You really can't," said Joss despairingly.

 _Well, if you people were being anything other than maddeningly incompetent I wouldn't have to._

"Damn it, Athene," Joss heard John mutter, but the computer wasn't listening.

 _The Lyric, 20:00. Take it or leave it._

There was a silence from their earpieces. Joss and John looked at each other. Finally Joss got out her phone to place a call. "We better tell Finch the good news. Athene is off the leash."

xxxxx

Bear, true to his training, latched onto McKay's gun arm and hung on. The gun dropped to the floor with a thud which was largely drowned out by the suppressed scream McKay uttered as Bear's teeth sliced into his forearm. He collapsed to the ground, the dog straddling him, but not letting go.

"Gettim off! Gettim off me!" McKay's shrieks were getting louder. Harold judged that enough was enough.

"Bear! _Loslaten_ _!_ " The dog let go as Finch retrieved the gun from the carpet. McKay rolled over, cradling his injured arm and whimpering with pain.

"Let me see, Mr McKay." Finch knelt stiffly beside him and inspected the lacerated arm. "You've been lucky, I think. Bear doesn't seem to have punctured anything major. But now we really need to get you out of here."

McKay shot him a look of mixed fear and loathing, but didn't say anything. He got to his knees and after a moment's hesitation climbed shakily to his feet. Blood was dripping from his arm onto the carpet, and so Finch allowed him to lead the way to his bathroom. There was nothing like a first aid kit, of course, but a small towel torn into strips made a passable bandage. Once he had the bleeding under control, Finch allowed McKay to go through to his bedroom and get dressed. Bear had followed along, panting and still quivering with excitement. He allowed Harold to pick up his trailing lead and run his hands over the dog, soothing him. By the time McKay had finished dressing, the quivering had stopped and Bear seemed calmer.

"Time to go, Mr McKay," said Harold briskly. He glanced at the bulky dressing poking out from McKay's shirt sleeve. "Although I think we might have to stop by a doctor I know before anything else..."

Xxxx

Bowen was lying on his back on his bed with the curtains drawn against the morning light, feeling as stupid as he could ever remember feeling. The voice in his head had obviously been an illusion, probably a lingering remnant of some bizarre dream he'd been having. Wishful thinking on a grand scale. Oh, how nice it would be if there was some magical being which would simply sweep in and take all his problems away. Codswallop! He prepared himself to get up, collect David and go out to Queens to murder a helpless old man. Just another day at the office.

 _Martin._

He jumped.

"Look, who are you?" he whispered after a moment.

 _You can call me Athene. But listen, this is important. You need to come to the Lyric Diner on Third Avenue at 20:00 tonight. Keep your earpiece in._

"I still have no idea why I should trust you," he said, more loudly.

 _Because you don't have much choice right now. Henry Harris is well guarded, McKay has moved the file to a safe deposit box, and you're running out of time._

He was forced to admit the truth of this, the last part at least. "Okay. The Lyric Diner at 20:00. I'm bringing backup, though."

 _It would be better for you to come alone._

"Why? Are these people a bit nervous, likely to try to kill me in public?"

 _No, it's just that the booths there only seat four._

There was a pause. _That was meant to be a joke._

"Well, it was a very weak one." He wasn't in the mood for humour anyway. "Okay. You have your meeting. But if there's going to be more than one of them – whoever they are – then I'm taking Kevin."

xxxxx

Shaw was sitting hunched up on the bed, resting her cheek on her knees. Sticking around for a while might not be a bad idea. If the whole point was to avert the threat against their Numbers, well, she was in prime position to do that right now. There was also the chance to try to pry some more information out of Green Eyes. She raised her head. "Hey. Wilbur. You planning on feeding me?"

Green Eyes looked affronted. "My name's not Wilbur!"

Shaw shrugged. "Gotta call you something. So right now you're Wilbur. Anyway – food. Got any plans in that direction?"

His mouth set in a displeased line, Wilbur dug the room service menu out of the night stand drawer and tossed it over to her. "Don't go overboard. Room service isn't included in the operational budget."

"Oh, so you're paying, huh?" Shaw ran her eye down the list. "Hm. Scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on a toasted ciabatta sounds lovely. Freshly squeezed OJ and a fruit platter." She shot him a bright smile. "So, what are you having?"

He growled at her, but picked up the phone. Shaw smirked. This might be fun after all.

Xxxx

Farouk Madani glanced at Harold from under his eyebrows. "It's been a while since we last spoke, Mr Partridge. I was starting to wonder if you'd found another doctor."

Harold smiled, but did not reply.

Madani continued to irrigate the puncture wounds on McKay's forearm with saline. "A dog bite. That's not in your usual run of things. Normally it's GSWs, stab wounds, head injuries..." Madani glanced up again. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not asking questions. Merely making an observation." He inspected the wounds. "Well, Mr-"

"-Doe," put in Harold quickly.

"-Mr Doe," Madani continued, straight faced. "I've cleaned out the wounds in your arm. Mr Partridge assures me that the dog responsible is fully immunised against rabies, but there is still a high likelihood of bacterial infection. Some doctors offer antibiotics routinely in such cases, but normally I prefer to wait until there is some sign of actual infection." He glanced again at Harold. "Still, from my experience of your friend here, I think I'll give you a supply to take with you, just in case."

"Thank you, Farouk," said Harold. McKay, still silent and resentful, didn't respond apart from a glower in Harold's direction.

Madani left the room for the dispensary. McKay continued to glare at Harold.

"When I told you British Intelligence were after you, you didn't seem very surprised," said Finch.

McKay gave a surly shrug.

Finch felt his patience fraying. "Mr McKay, perhaps you had better consider where your interests best lie at present. I want to help you, but I cannot unless you choose to tell me what is going on."

McKay's face set, looking more than ever like John. "Your damned dog bit me."

Finch's patience snapped. "My dog acted to protect me when you pulled a gun on me. I agree your injury was totally unnecessary, but it was also completely self-inflicted. I'm going to ask you one last time, Mr McKay. You can tell me what is going on, or I can have you driven back to your apartment to wait until MI6 come calling. The choice is yours."

There was a silence in the room as McKay considered this. Finally he looked down at his fingers. "Back a couple of years ago my Mom died. She'd been looking after my Grandpa, back in Washington State. Before she died she made me promise to keep a close eye on him. So after she passed I moved Grandpa back to New York."

Finch nodded encouragingly.

"In amongst Grandpa's things were a bunch of old papers. There was a file there." McKay took a deep breath. "The stuff in the file is really, really embarrassing to the British government. That's why they're trying to kill me. They want the file, and I bet they want me too."

Harold took a long look at the big man sitting opposite him. He had a strong feeling that this wasn't the full story. Still, at least it was a start.

"Then the easiest way to get you out of your current difficulties would seem to be to surrender the file to the British government," he said.

McKay shook his head. "I know how this works," he said desperately. "That file is the only thing that's keeping me alive right now. As soon as they get it, I'm dead."

"I can assure you, Mr McKay, we won't let that happen," said Finch placatingly.

McKay shot him a look of disbelief. "Anyway, I don't have it any more. I put it in a safety deposit box yesterday. Just in case."

"I'm sure it could be retrieved-"

"No. No way. Not unless… unless they give me what I want."

Finch's brows drew down in bafflement. "They give you-" but at that moment Madani came back with a little bottle of pills, and McKay returned to his sullen silence.

Xxxx

"Wilbur, that was delicious." Shaw stretched luxuriously. Green Eyes had limited himself to the continental breakfast, casting aggrieved glances at her as he ate. She was enjoying her revenge for her kidnapping, slight as it was. Since it was obvious her name for him annoyed him immensely, she was using it at every opportunity.

It was full daylight outside now, and Wilbur seemed to be getting antsy. He kept shooting little glances at the door, but no-one knocked. After a while he cracked and went into the bathroom to use his cell, leaving the door open so he could see her while he was in there. She moved over to try and listen in, but he turned the shower on and she couldn't hear what was being said. He came out looking puzzled.

"Things not going too well, huh?" she enquired genially.

He shot her another irritated look. "It looks like I'm going to be babysitting you for a bit longer."

"Aww. You say that like it's a bad thing. I feel hurt." She pouted at him.

"Ah. Your Axis Two personality disorder's been turned off again. How convenient for you."

The sneering tone in his voice wiped the smile from her face. "It's not a convenience." She retreated back to her space on the bed.

"Well, it's bloody inconsistent, anyway."

"Why would you care anyhow?" She held his gaze until he broke eye contact. He turned away and sat back down in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

"I never trusted the trick cyclists. I reckon half of it's made up anyway." He was staring up at the ceiling now.

"Trick cyclists?" Shaw was puzzled.

"Trick cyclists – psychiatrists. Head shrinkers. A bunch of quacks, sitting there with their little pads, 'do you ever dream of having sex with your mother?', all that shit."

"You think Axis Two's just a label?"

He shrugged. "Probably. In your case, anyway."

"It was never formally diagnosed," she found herself confessing. "I just found it in the DSM and it seemed to fit."

"DSM?"

"The _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual_. It's the handbook they use-"

"Ah. You read it somewhere. So it must be true."

"It fit," she repeated stubbornly.

There was a long pause. Wilbur's eyes were closed, and he seemed to be dozing. "It's a funny thing," his voice came softly. "We can always escape the judgements other people make of us. Like the smart-arse scruffy kid from the slums who goes off and gets an education, changes the way he talks, makes a life for himself. But the judgements we pass on ourselves – we can never, ever escape those."

xxxx

Julian was back in the Deputy Director's office again. The early sunshine filtering through the branches of the tree outside the window was irritating; he'd now been awake nearly thirty-six hours and he was overdue for his coffee.

"So you're telling me that this rogue operative who disappeared, then reappeared, then disappeared again… is back? Again." The DD was a tall, balding man, and right now his lips were pursed in distaste. Casey could see what he was thinking - "Can't you people keep track of your operatives?" - and flinched inside.

"Yes, Sir. The suggestion had been that he died in that bomb blast outside the DoD facility in New York in 2012. It would appear that that assessment was, um, overly optimistic."

"And now your people are telling you that he has some connection with this situation we've been monitoring for the last couple of days?"

"That would be correct, Sir."

The DD leaned back and stared at Casey through narrowed eyes. "So what the hell has he been doing for the last three years?"

"The easiest way to find that out would be to bring him in and… ask him," murmured Casey enticingly.

The DD's stare didn't change. Then he shook his head decisively. "No. Put a team on him and find out everything about him. _Everything_. But let him run, for now."

"Will do, Sir. I'll keep you informed." Casey made to rise and leave.

"Don't lose sight of him again, Casey." The warning in the boss's tone was unmistakable.

"Understood, Sir." Casey made his escape.

xxxx

Finch unlocked the door of the safe house and gestured for McKay to precede him in. "You can make yourself at home here, Mr McKay," he told his guest as they made their way into the spacious living area. "I suggest you contact your employers and arrange a few days off. In the mean time, I have some calls to make and some urgent tasks I need to complete." As he spoke, he opened his laptop and set it on the dining table. "There's a good selection of cable channels on the TV and there's food available in the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself."

McKay grunted at this and settled down on the couch. Bear sat himself next to Harold, but Harold could tell from the dog's posture that he was keeping part of his attention on McKay.

Once the laptop had booted up he turned his attention to the security camera footage, so reluctantly abandoned a few hours ago. He steeled himself for another tedious session of combing through it in search of Ms Shaw, and was beginning to be engrossed when a growl from Bear interrupted his concentration. McKay had approached. The dog was standing, bristling and starting to quiver. "Bear. Liegen," said Harold absently. The dog dropped obediently to his belly, but he still telegraphed "I don't like you, and I don't trust you either" in every line of his body.

"What can I do for you, Mr McKay?" asked Finch pointedly, closing the laptop.

"Is that damn dog going to eyeball me the whole day?" grumbled McKay, as he retreated to the sofa again.

"I have no idea," said Finch shortly, opening the laptop again and returning to the surveillance footage. But his concentration was again disturbed by the buzz of his cell phone. Sighing, he tapped his earpiece.

"Finch? Joss here. John and I have just had a call from Athene..."

He listened with increasing dismay. When she finished he sat literally speechless for a moment.

"Finch? Are you okay?" She sounded concerned.

He got up from his seat at the dining table and walked into the kitchen, out of McKay's immediate hearing. "This is something I've feared for years. Ever since I created the Machine. Oh, my Lord."

"She appears to be acting reluctantly, to break an impasse," said Carter.

"That's not the point. I worried about an AI being abused by the government, used to rule us. But I worried more about an AI taking human choices away. Now it's happening."

"Well, so far all she's done is propose a meeting. I guess we have the option of not showing."

Finch paused to consider this. "Who did she want to go?"

"Since she hasn't contacted you directly, I assume she wants John and me. So what do you think, Harold? Should we?"

Finch stared out the kitchen window at the view of a brick wall ten feet away. "I have no idea, detective. I truly have no idea."

To be continued...


	8. Chapter 8

"So what was it that fitted?" Wilbur's voice made her jump slightly. It was getting on towards lunch time. They were still trapped in the hotel room, Shaw lying prone on the bed, Wilbur in the chair, his legs stuck out.

"Huh?"

"In the BDSM – what fitted?"

"It's the DSM, you moron."

"Oh, sorry. My mistake." His smirk suggested it was no mistake at all.

She decided to ignore this. "I prefer to be alone. I don't have friends. Don't even want 'em. I don't care about other people. No empathy."

"Hm. What else?"

"I have a flat affect-"

"A what?"

"Not much emotional expression. Verbally or non-verbally."

"Where I come from, we call that a stiff upper lip. It's considered to be a virtue. Anyway, in your case it's bullshit. I've seen plenty of emotional expression from you in the last twelve hours. You enjoy teasing me, for a start." He turned a little in his chair, evidently finding the prolonged inactivity as confining as she did.

"What makes you think that?" she couldn't resist asking.

"Your eyes sparkle." She stared hard at him, but he seemed quite serious. "You see, Sameen, I think that personality disorder stuff is crap. You're just a natural loner who keeps her emotions private. Nothing wrong with that, I'm much the same. I think a long time ago, maybe when you were quite young, some miserable git told you you were a bit peculiar. And you took that to heart and withdrew from people even more. And then as you got older you realised you could make people uncomfortable by playing that role, and you quite enjoyed one-upping them like that, and so you kept doing it. It became a habit. And then you stumbled on the BDSM-"

"DSM!"

"-Whatever. And it gave you a nice handy label for yourself, a justification for your behaviour and an excuse to stop trying to make any connections, and so hey presto! You tell yourself you have an Axis Two personality disorder. And the rest, as they say, is history."

Shaw sat and digested this for a moment. "I thought you weren't interested in psychology."

"I'm not, in general. _Your_ psychology, on the other hand – I find that fascinating."

"Fascinating?" She didn't know what to make of this.

"Fascinating, entrancing, captivating, enthralling..." He offered a lazy smile. His eyes were suddenly a very deep sea-green, she noticed.

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you trying to romance me, Wilbur? 'Cause it's not working."

"Romance you? He'd need to be a bold fellow who tried that. Still, faint heart ne'er won fair lady..." The maddening smile was still intact, but his eyes became serious. "Anyway, my name's not Wilbur. I'm David."

xxxx

"So let me get this straight," said Reese. "Finch has Pat, so he's safe for now." His mouth tightened involuntarily as he uttered his cousin's name. "We have Grandpa well guarded here. The SIS hit team is going to have trouble fulfilling their brief. But Shaw's disappeared and Finch can't find her, and we can't go looking for her, or the British team, without leaving one of our Numbers unguarded."

"That would seem to be the situation," agreed Carter. They were back in the lounge opposite Grandpa's room while the nursing staff changed the old man's bedding and gave him a wash and shave.

Reese rubbed his eyes. He'd been awake for most of the past twenty-four hours, and he felt badly in need of a change of shirt. "Fusco's had a night's sleep now..." But his voice trailed away as he considered the likely outcome if MI6 arrived to find Fusco guarding Grandpa. Lionel might be a valuable asset in most situations, but Reese wasn't so sure of his ability to fight off a team of experienced intelligence operatives. And leaving Carter on her own in this situation was not an option either.

He stood up, massaging his lower back. "I don't think we have much choice, Joss. We've got a Mexican stand-off right now. We have to do something to break it. Maybe Athene's suggestion will help."

 _I'm so glad you're seeing reason._

He glowered up at the security cam in the corner of the room. "We'll come to your meeting. But that's as far as it goes. And Grandpa stays safe while we're not here to guard him. Okay?"

 _That's all that's required. Truly. And yes, I'll make sure nothing happens to 'Grandpa', how sweet. Now, now. No need to glare at me like that, John!_

And then there was silence.

Xxxxx

Finch sat at the dining room table at the safe house, trying to ignore the relentless chatter of the TV as McKay flicked from channel to channel to channel. It wasn't so much that the man's tastes ran to the banal. It was more that he seemed to have no discernible preferences at all. Sports. Shopping. Reality TV. A televangelist for a few minutes; Finch was vaguely surprised at how long that one lasted. More shopping. Talk show. Sport again. Once McKay had run through the full range of channels on offer he started again from the beginning, flicking faster this time. Finch resisted the urge to scream, and focussed on the security camera footage.

Finally, a result! He picked up Ms Shaw with McKay, walking along the street only half a block from Sundowner. They moved out of range, but with the time stamp on the footage it wasn't hard to pick them up again on the next camera, and the next until they came to the traffic cam monitoring the next street crossing. There it became a little confused. The low definition black and white image meant he could only vaguely make them out in the crowd waiting to cross the street, and when the mob surged across he lost her. McKay emerged on the other side alone. Finch saw him hesitate. His body language seemed to indicate confusion. He looked back at the other side of the street. Then he shrugged and walked off, out of range of the camera.

Harold played the segment back several times. Something had happened in that knot of people. Something had separated Ms Shaw from McKay, and it must have been something… unusual… to have worked against someone of her formidable abilities. For a time he focussed his attention on one couple – a leather jacketed man supporting a drunken woman who seemed similar to Ms Shaw in height and build. But the lighting and pixellation of the images meant it was impossible to be even reasonably sure, let alone certain. And there were several other couples in the vicinity who seemed to be likewise engaged in staggering, vomiting and even more sordid activities. Eventually he discarded them. Leaning back in his chair, he stared unseeingly at the scene in front of him: McKay slumped listlessly on the couch, Bear lying prone but alert on the rug next to the table. Shafts of sunlight coming through the windows fell on the polished floor; dust motes drifted in the air. He sighed. He should phone Detective Carter to let her know of this latest development, not that it would come as a surprise or that he had much to report, really. He pulled his cell out and made the call.

Xxxx

Lunch was more from the room service menu. This time Shaw was more restrained, though the prices were still pretty astronomical, even the cheap options like the burger. David skipped lunch entirely.

"The smart kid from the slums," she said through her burger. "That was you, right?"

"Smart-arse was the term I used. Not quite the same thing. But yes, that was me."

"So…?"

He was lying on his back on the bed this time while she sat over on the sofa trying not to get sauce on the pale upholstery.

"You want me to give information away for free?"

She wasn't quite sure what to make of that smile. Teasing? Predatory? She set that aside. "Okay. How about a trade?"

"Oooh. You show me yours and I'll show you mine?"

Definitely teasing, she decided. She wondered for just a moment what it would be like to have sex with someone you liked. Hell, what would it be like to actually _like_ someone?

She licked the last of the sauce from her fingers. "Okay. You go first."

He was apparently not going to take his own words literally, because he lay back, fingers laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling again. "I was born in the East End. London Docklands. But when I was nineteen I committed an unforgivable sin."

"Sounds juicy," murmured Shaw.

"Not so much. I joined the Met."

"Wait, you joined the opera?" She was surprised.

He picked up a pillow from beside him and threw it at her. "Not the opera, you idiot. The Met. The Filth. The rozzers. The Metropolitan Police."

"Oh." Shaw nodded understanding. "Hey, wait. You're a real cockney. You don't talk like one."

"You fink so, luv? What's a cockney talk like ennyhow?" The change in his voice was so sudden and so complete it made her jump. He sat up on the bed. "I changed how I spoke so people wouldn't judge me, wouldn't assume...except it didn't work. Not completely, anyway. Once I'd finished my probation period as a copper, they put me in police intelligence. With my family background, I had a special insight into London's organised crime. They said." He grimaced at some remembered aggravation. "I suppose I can't really complain – they also let me study part time at the University of London for a degree in criminology. That helped me shed the accent. But after a few years there I moved across into Special Branch. Anti-terrorism along with the organised crime, the really nasty stuff. Than another sideways move into MI5, domestic counterterrorism,and then the final step in my moral dissolution was to join SIS three years ago." Shaw suspected he was leaving some things out, but for now she was content to leave it.

"So… are you married? In a relationship?" She mentally rolled her eyes at herself for even asking.

His eyebrows flicked up. "Married to my work. I'm not much for family. They slow you down. They can… drag you into things you don't want." He seemed to stop himself from saying more. "How about you, Sameen? Anyone? A significant other?"

"Hell, no. My philosophy is to get in, get done, get out. We're all adults here, right?"

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as he considered this. "Why do we have to be adults?"

"Huh?"

"I'm just saying. It's no fun having to be the grown-up all the time." His eyes suddenly narrowed. "So, Sameen – are you ticklish?"

She eyed him in sudden alarm. "What? No. I don't think so."

"Aha! You don't know – that means no-one's ever tickled you, doesn't it." There was a dangerous light in his eyes.

She backed away. "Uh-uh, no way..."

He rose from the bed and advanced towards her, hands out, fingers crooked and ready.

"David, if you-"

"If I what? If I tickled you until you were helpless, and then tied you up and kissed you all over? And then made slow love to you? What then?"

She blinked, continuing to back away. "I'm not wild about the being tied up part." Wait, that wasn't what she'd meant to say…

He paused. "You said last night you quite liked being tied up."

"Nah, I was just messing with you."

"Oh." He resumed his advance. "Well, scratch the tying up, then. But the tickling stays..."

xxxx

Reese lay stretched out on the row of seats in the visitor lounge. He could see the staff casting mystified glances at Joss and him; their constant presence for nearly eighteen hours was plainly causing some puzzlement. But he'd seen Joss talking to a senior nurse an hour or so back. She'd obviously given them something to placate them, to judge from the smiles and hand-waving which had gone on. In any case, she hadn't seen fit to disturb him, and so he'd decided to stretch out and grab an hour's shut-eye. He was starting to feel very hungry; he firmly told his belly that it would feel better once he was asleep. He closed his eyes and began methodically to relax his muscles, starting with his face. It didn't take long for the background noises of the hospital to fade out…

"John? I'm sorry to wake you. I just had a call from Finch." Joss was crouched next to him, one hand on his shoulder.

He sat up. "What did he say?"

"Nothing very much. He's having some trouble tracking Shaw after she left the club with McKay, but he's narrowing things down. He's hoping to get a fix on her within the next couple of hours."

"We're a go for the meeting tonight. Let's hope he can find her before that."

Reese sat up. He could feel the rush of time flowing past them. Things were moving to some kind of conclusion, he could feel it. But it seemed wrong to be helplessly swept towards that denouement. He hated the sensation. He wanted to be the one making things happen, not just sitting there like a rabbit on the railroad tracks. But he forced himself to breathe deep, find his centre and relax. One thing at a time. Deal with this meeting tonight. Then find the bastards who had snatched Shaw and…. savour the look on her face when he came to get her. A tiny smile turned the corners of his mouth upwards. Yup, she'd be pissed as hell. It would even be worth the worry and aggravation just to see her trying to walk out of whatever hole she was being kept in, trying to act normal.

Xxxx

Shaw was dozing when David's cell phone chirped. The ring gradually got louder and more insistent, which resulted in an increasingly panicked search for the damned thing. They finally found it in his pants pocket, which was fine except that his pants had somehow ended up jammed down the end of the bed, stuffed into the space where the sheet tucked in at the bottom.

"Martin." David's tones were clipped and businesslike. Though he didn't retreat to the bathroom to take the call, she noticed. So who the hell was Martin? She shrugged mentally. The search through the bed for the phone had jolted her out of her post-coital lassitude. She'd been enjoying the unfamiliar sensation, and so she lay back again to try to recapture it. David was sitting up, though, listening intently to the voice on the other end of the phone. He seemed to be making a lot of dubious "Uh-huh" noises, interspersed with the occasional incredulous "What?" Finally he sighed, said "Okay" and ended the call.

He tossed the phone onto the night stand and lay back. "Looks like our little fling might be coming to an end. Martin's got some sort of meeting set up to solve the problem we're here to deal with. It might be all over tonight, in which case I'm on the first flight back to London tomorrow."

"O-kay," she said slowly. "So where does that leave me?"

"In a nice comfy bed in a hotel room with me. For now."

"That wasn't what I meant and you know it."

He rolled over to face her. One hand plucked a strand of hair from her face and rearranged it. She tensed slightly, but let him continue petting her hair. "If you were good enough to work for ISA – and then walk away from them and drop off the grid – you're good enough to get out of this room and walk away from here. Aren't you."

She didn't reply.

"I knew pretty much as soon as I took the zip ties off that I wouldn't be able to hold you here. Unless you wanted to be held."

There was a strange feeling in her throat. A painful knot seemed to be growing there, matched by an increasing pain in the centre of her chest. Not too bad right now – she'd rate it probably a three or four on a ten-point scale, but definitely getting worse by the second. David's hand continued its slow, repetitive movements, smoothing her hair.

"So you decided to seduce me to keep me here," she said, struggling to speak past the knot.

The hand stopped. "What?" He sat up. "Bloody hell, Sameen, did you think I was working round to that? No!"

"Oh." The knot was still there in her throat, but the chest pain abruptly eased.

"You've got a real thing about that, haven't you. You thought I was fake right from the start. What the hell do I have to do to convince you otherwise, open up a vein?"

"Well, if you're not fake, what is this? World's fastest case of Stockholm Syndrome?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "What is what? You're asking me to explain to you what you're _feeling_?"

Shaw was suddenly aware that she'd said too much. Because this was certainly not a one-night stand. She didn't do relationships, oh hell no. But if it wasn't a quick fling, and it wasn't a relationship… what _was_ it?

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

Finch sat in front of his laptop, running the sequence of Shaw's disappearance again and again. He had eliminated all of the individual figures walking away after she had separated from McKay. He went back to the couples. The leather-jacketed man and the semi-conscious woman. Was it her? The image could only be enhanced so much. He began searching other cameras for a better look at the pair. He traced their journey along Third Avenue to… the Coronet Hotel? At least there was no need to hack the hotel's network. He smiled a little and made a mental note to check in with Mira soon; it had been a while... The security camera at the front entrance gave a good, high-quality image with excellent lighting. Proof positive that Shaw had entered the hotel with the man... Finch's fingers flew over the keyboard as he tracked their progress across the lobby and into the elevators. Off at the third floor and along the hall to Room 314. Which was booked to Mr Donald Myers, a currency trader from Dunbar Campbell Smyth, a brokerage firm in the City of London. It didn't take long to ascertain that DCS was in fact a shell, connected to another shell, which appeared to connect nowhere. Finch sat back. He'd gone as far as it was practical to go. There was no reasonable doubt that Myers was a cover identity and the company he worked for a mask for MI6. Which meant he needed to get in touch with Detective Carter and Mr Reese before they had their meeting. While he wasn't certain what Athene had up her sleeve, there was a better than even chance the meeting was with the SIS team. He pulled out his phone to call John and Joss.

xxxxx

The Lyric Diner at eight o'clock on a Saturday evening was doing good business. Martin and Kevin entered and began to elbow their way towards the back. _You want the very last booth_ , said the voice in Martin's ear.

"We want the last booth," he said to Kevin.

Kevin shot him a fishy look. "Who the hell is talking to you?" he asked Martin bluntly.

"Honestly, Kevin, if I told you, you'd never believe me," sighed Bowen. "An ally. They can help us." I hope, he added silently.

 _Over there. The booth with the black woman and the tall man in the suit_ , came Athene's voice. _Go up to them and say 'Hello Joss and John'._

He went over to the couple sitting side-by-side in the booth. Fuck! The man was the McKay lookalike from last night. He shook an imaginary fist at Athene for dropping him in the shit like this. He was intensely glad he had Kevin with him, veteran of a hundred Glasgow pub brawls. Too late to do anything but try to tough it out.

"Hello Joss and John," he said carefully.

The woman looked up at him. She seemed to be listening to something for a moment, then she relaxed a little and said "Hello, Martin. Hello, Kevin." Beside him Kevin shot him an incredulous glance.

"Why don't you sit down?" said the man – John, he supposed – after a moment.

 _Well, kids, I think I'll just leave you all to get to know each other now. Play nice._

From the exasperated expressions on both Joss and John's faces, they had heard the same thing he had. He was pretty sure his own expression matched theirs.

"So… I'm Martin, and this is Kevin. And you are Joss and John." Bowen hadn't felt this awkward since...well, actually, he couldn't remember feeling this strange ever.

The man in the suit, the one who looked so much like McKay, leaned forward slightly and said "We help people. And you kill people." The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable. Martin tried to think of a good response to this.

Kevin was sitting with a deceptively blank expression on his face, listening hard.

"We do a job. A hard, nasty job, but one that needs doing," said Martin.

"Well, it's a job you aren't going to do here. We know you're here to kill two people – Henry Harris and Patrick McKay. But it's not going to happen. So you should get back on the plane that brought you over here and go back to England, and never come back." John spoke softly, but the hardness in his eyes left Martin in no doubt at all that he meant every word he said.

"I'm afraid that can't happen," said Martin pleasantly. "Your friends have kicked the hornets' nest. One way or another, they're going to have to deal with the consequences."

John was opening his mouth to say something when the woman, Joss, spoke up. "Martin, I think we all need to put our cards on the table. Like John said, we help people. We try to prevent bad things from happening. I think this meeting was arranged to try to get us to help each other. Tell us what's going on, and maybe we can make a deal."

Martin avoided looking at Kevin, who seemed frozen in his seat. He thought for a long moment. "Okay. But not here. Can we walk and talk?"

The couple on the other side of the table exchanged glances. Then John nodded. "Okay. Let's go, then."

They all rose and negotiated their way through the crowd to the doors: an awkward period in which they were all jammed up together, unwillingly sharing personal space. The street outside was brightly lit and crowded, so they began to head for Central Park.

"Martin, what the hell are you doing?" hissed Kevin in his ear after they had walked a while.

He wanted to say "I wish to hell I knew," but this would hardly inspire confidence, and so he shrugged. He angled his steps to put a little space between them and the couple walking alongside them. "I don't think we have much choice right now," he murmured. "The file's our top priority. That's the thing we simply have to get, Kevin. I don't get the feeling these people care about it one way or the other. For some reason they're protecting McKay and Harris, but maybe-" He broke off as they approached the entrance to the Park.

"I hope to Christ you know what you're doing," muttered Kevin.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," muttered Martin back. "Just shut up and watch my back."

Kevin didn't reply, but Martin could feel waves of disapproval coming off him. As well he might; what Martin was about to do could arguably be called treason…

Xxxx

"Detective Carter, Mr Reese, I have an important piece of information for you," came Finch's voice in Joss's earpiece. She put her hand to it, shooting a glance at John who was mirroring her gesture. "Go ahead," she said quietly. The two men walking beside them were mere shadows in the gloom under the trees of the park, but she didn't want them hearing this conversation.

"I've just been able to confirm what I was starting to suspect anyway: Ms Shaw was abducted by a member of the SIS team. She's being held in a hotel room right now."

Joss put a firm hand on John's sleeve to prevent him from doing anything...unwise. Before he could say anything she murmured, "Okay, thanks Finch. We'll be in touch," and tapped the earpiece to end the call. She could see the anger in John's eyes even in the dim light. "Hold on, John," she said to him. "We're here to talk, remember?"

The grim intensity in his eyes didn't change, but he nodded.

As their group emerged from the shade of the trees onto the lawn, Joss slowed her pace until they were standing still, lit by a strange combination of a half moon and the light pollution of the tower blocks all around them.

"Okay, boys," she said firmly. "This is where you start talking."

Martin, apparently the senior of the two men before them, nodded to the big Scotsman. "Kevin, go and keep an eye out. No-one within fifty yards."

Kevin nodded, his eyes doubtful, and strode off. Martin, John and Joss made their way to a park bench and sat down.

Martin gave the couple in front of him one more long look, and began.

xxxx

She was starting to feel downright guilty about ordering things from room service. But, damn it, she was _hungry_. "Tell you what, this can be my treat," she said to David when he gave her another of his pained looks. "You order something."

"Oh yes? And how were you planning to pay for it?" he asked silkily.

"Uh..." Damn, hadn't thought of that. "Well… I could pay you back?" Her words hung in the air for a moment. Because that would imply keeping in touch, it would imply – all sorts of things she didn't really want to think about. Which floated glittering in the space between them for a moment.

"Yeah. Sure, Sameen." David's voice was flat, his expression closed.

"No, I mean it," she found herself saying. Astonished to find she actually _did_ mean it.

David shrugged and turned away, giving her a look which said, "yeah, yeah, sure" as clearly as if he'd said the words aloud.

Shaw shot out an arm and grabbed him. "Hey. You got all offended when I didn't believe _you_."

He didn't reply.

"Pfff..." she let out a breath in aggravation. "Listen, I can't do this. On again, off again. Make up your damn mind."

His head flicked around, the green eyes meeting hers with a jolt. "Okay. Time to keep your side of the bargain, Sameen."

"Bargain?" She narrowed her eyes.

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine? I told you my story. Do you trust me enough to tell me yours?"

Shaw turned away from him, allowing her gaze to flick across the bland furnishings of the hotel room: pale couch, neutral carpet, beige and pale yellow striped curtains… "It's not very interesting really. Mom and I came to the States when I was six. I don't remember much of the trip over. We were in a car at first, I remember her telling me to lie down on the back seat and be very quiet a couple of times." She shrugged.

"Where were you coming from?" asked David quietly when she didn't immediately resume.

"Iran." Shaw shrugged again, trying to rid her shoulders of their sudden tension. David's eyebrows flicked up, but he made no move, simply sat quietly attentive.

She drew another deep breath. "Mom and Dad were having problems, I guess, even before we came to the States. They, um, parted a couple of years later. Then..." Her voice petered out. Why was this so hard to talk about all of a sudden? Well, not all of a sudden, it came to her in a flash. Because I've never talked about this to anyone, she realised. Not voluntarily.

As she sat there with her mouth opening and shutting but no sound coming out, David reached across and took her hand. "Hey. It's okay. If it distresses you, you don't have to-"

"No, I'm all right," she said, trying to smile. "You showed me yours, right? I never welch on a deal."

He settled back, still holding her hand.

"Dad was taking me on a trip. To see a football game. But we had an accident, the car flipped and he was killed." There, that wasn't so hard, right? Two small creases had appeared between David's eyebrows as he frowned. His grip on her hand tightened a little.

"I can only kind of remember the accident. It was in the evening, I think I was dozing a little, I just remember a loud noise and then the rescue guy's flashlight. They pulled me out okay, pretty much uninjured. But when they told me my Dad was dead I couldn't feel anything. Well, apart from hungry. I could see even the firemen thought that was weird. That's when I knew I was different to other kids." She gave David a defiant look. "So you see? It wasn't just that I read it in the DSM. I've always been like this."

He shook his head slowly, still clutching her hand. "You were a traumatised young child, Sameen. Of course you couldn't feel anything. And the fire fighters thought you were weird? Firemen are there to put out fires, they don't have expertise in bereaved children. So I think my analysis stands...anyway, go on." He settled back in his chair, his eyes on her face.

"Mom and I, well things were okay until I hit my teens. Then they kinda went downhill. Mother-daughter issues, you know? She was pretty proud when I got into med school. But when I didn't finish my residency and went into the Marines instead, well… we haven't spoken in years." For the first time in a long time she wondered how her mother was, if she was okay. She shook her head slightly.

"I liked the Marines. No-one gave a shit about my people skills or empathy or any of that crap. So when the ISA came recruiting, it was a no-brainer. I was made for it."

There was another long silence. "Why did you leave?" he asked softly at last.

Another silence. She let out a long sigh, and slowly disengaged her hand. "I really am sorry, David. But I can't tell you that. Not right now."

He shrugged his shoulders, smiling ruefully. "Worth a crack. But I understand, Sameen." And as she looked at him it suddenly hit her. He did. He really did.

xxxxx

"You want to know what this is all about?" Martin rubbed a hand across his chin, hating the itchy stubble he found there. He tried some humour. "If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

"You're welcome to try," said John softly.

"Seriously. This can never, ever come out."

"As long as it can't harm this country, you have our word."

Martin looked long into the man's eyes. Finally he nodded.

"It all goes back to 1945. No. Earlier." He grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "In 1936 King Edward VIII abdicates, yeah? Leaves the throne to his younger brother and goes off to marry Wallis Simpson, the American divorcee. The happy couple end up living in France as Duke and Duchess of Windsor. He's a marked Nazi sympathiser and a complete waste of space, but when war comes he persuades the authorities to let him serve in the British Army in France as a Major-General. Where he's bloody useless, but then that's normal for a general, right?"

There was the smallest hint of a smile on the other man's face for an instant. "Go on."

"France falls, and instead of retreating with the Army to Dunkirk, the fearless Duke grabs his Duchess and flees south to Spain, which is neutral, and thence to Lisbon. They spend several weeks in the villa of another Nazi sympathiser being courted by the German Ambassador to Portugal. Then a British warship arrives and takes them both off to the Duke's next assignment, Governor of the Bahamas, where he spends the war, safely out of the way."

"I'm waiting for the part where you explain what's going on," said Joss dryly.

"At the end of the war, the Allies capture the archives of the German Foreign Ministry. They're taken to Washington DC and microfilmed. Copies of the microfilms were given to my government." He paused; they both nodded.

"Then in 1947, once there had been time to go through the sheer mass of material recovered, an urgent communique was sent from London to Washington, requesting that the State Department destroy one particular file. Which was done. The trouble is, someone had already taken an extra copy of that file. The man overseeing the microfilming. Henry Harris."

"My grandfather," said John quietly.

"Ah. That explains a lot." Martin ran his hand over his chin again. "When McKay – your cousin? - stumbled on the file he must have wondered what it was since most of it was in German. But evidently he puzzled it out. Google Translate is so helpful, don't you think?"

The American didn't respond to this, merely sat and waited. Martin took a deep breath.

"The file contained an agreement between the Duke of Windsor and the Nazis, drawn up in 1940 just before that warship arrived to take him off to the Bahamas. After the successful invasion of Britain by the Germans, the Duke of Windsor would have been installed as a puppet monarch. It was high treason. But faced with the prospect of executing his own brother, the King couldn't do it. So the evidence was made to go away, and the Royal Family ignored the Duke for almost the rest of his life. And it all became ancient history, until your cousin stumbled on the copy your grandfather made. And decided to try to blackmail our Queen."

Martin could see he had surprised them. He went on. "So you can see where that lands my government. The Queen faces the classic problem of any blackmail victim: if she pays up, how can she ever know it'll be the last demand? The scandal if her uncle's deal with the devil ever came out would be immense. No British government could ever tolerate being seen to have left Her Majesty hanging out to dry. And so the evidence must again be made to go away. Properly, this time."

There was silence between them.

"I hope you can understand," said Martin softly. "We simply must recover that file. And I'm sorry, but when your cousin sent that letter to Buckingham Palace he crossed a line. One way or another, the consequences of his actions are going to come home to him."

"There's another ingredient in this situation," said Joss. "You have a member of our team. A woman one of your guys snatched last night. It might be possible to make a deal here." Bowen looked surprised – and a little relieved.

The two Americans sat motionless for a moment. John was looking thoughtful as he rose to his feet, politely extending his hand to the woman. "We'll be in touch," he said to Bowen, and the two turned and strolled away into the shadows.

To be continued...

A/N: believe it or not, much of the history in this chapter is true. The Duke of Windsor did serve in France, did escape to Portugal, and was indeed evacuated to the Bahamas exactly as described. Furthermore, when the German Foreign Ministry archive was captured after the war, it was microfilmed by the American government. And one file, which apparently contained material embarrassing to the Royal Family, was destroyed at the request of the British government. The only fiction involved is the making of that extra copy – and the assumption that it contained an agreement between the Duke and the Nazis. Given what is known of the man's character – or lack of it – it's not a huge stretch to imagine that the file contained something like it. Since everyone involved is now dead, no-one will ever know...


	10. Chapter 10

"It's a no-brainer, Finch," said Reese patiently. "We trade Pat and the file for Shaw. Everybody wins."

They were sitting in the uncomfortable, but more private, accommodation of the subway hideout. McKay was locked in the safehouse with Bear keeping him company – neither party seemed very happy about that – and was hopefully asleep anyway.

"Unpleasant as your cousin is, I can't quite reconcile myself with handing him over in cold blood to be executed by SIS," argued Finch stubbornly. "We don't make moral judgements, remember? We prevent violence from happening, regardless of whether the person we are helping deserves it or not."

"They're going to keep coming after him, Harold," said Carter. "I agree, we can't hand him over. But we can't protect him indefinitely, either. Bowen's right. McKay crossed a line and there's no way he can scramble back over it at this late date."

There was a glum silence.

Reese stirred in his seat. "I have an idea. I think I know a way to keep SIS from killing Pat, but get them off his back as well. And he even gets to experience the consequences of his actions."

"Oh yes…?" said Finch.

"Ah," said Joss as she caught Reese's eye. "I think I know what you have in mind..."

xxxx

They set up the meet for Central Park again, but it was morning this time. Reese sat alone waiting on a park bench watching the dappled sunlight through the leaves, people walking dogs, a bunch of school children on a trip, teachers and a couple of moms shepherding them along. All so innocent and _normal_. When he saw Bowen approaching he rose and the two men began walking along one of the paths, making way for the occasional jogger. Reese waited until they were away from the most heavily trafficked places before he broke the silence.

"I have a deal I can offer you in return for Shaw. First, you get the file." He could see the eagerness in Bowen's eyes. "That's the main thing, right? I have a friend who can guarantee that even digital copies, if there are any, will go away."

Bowen nodded.

"Second," Reese went on, "my grandfather lives out his life undisturbed. What little there is of it."

Bowen was about to shake his head when Reese went on. "Come on, Martin. You know Henry Harris is irrelevant. He's ninety-seven years old, bedridden, and if he was going to tell anyone about that file or use it in any way he would have by now. Besides, he's dying. He'll probably be dead by the time you get back to London." He paused to allow this to sink in.

Bowen nodded slowly.

Reese took a deep breath. "Final thing: I have a bottomless hole I keep for people like my cousin. See, I used to kill people, like you. But finally I got sick of killing. Even people who deserved it. I'll put my cousin in a hole so deep and dark he won't see the light of day until he's an old, old man. If he lives that long. But you don't get to kill him."

Bowen considered this for a long time as they walked. "My orders were to eliminate him."

Reese shrugged. "I wish I could let you do that. In my opinion, Pat doesn't deserve to live. But it's not my judgement to make. And it's not your government's either. Anyway, without his evidence he can't touch the British royal family. Even if he went public – in about twenty years' time – without that file it's just someone else taking pot-shots at the Queen. She must be used to it by now."

Bowen nodded slowly.

"Anyway, those are my terms," Reese continued. "You get the file, Patrick McKay disappears for a very long time, and my price is that we get Shaw back and no-one gets killed. Take it or leave it."

xxxx

 _So, have you made up your mind, Martin?_

He was walking back along Third Avenue towards the Coronet when Athene's voice sounded in his ear.

"Yes. I think we have no choice, and your man's offer is as good as we get."

 _He's not my man. In fact, he'd be horrified to hear you call him that._

Martin shrugged, and then became aware of how strange that would look to anyone watching. Still, New York. No-one gave a damn.

"I'll use the burner he left with me to contact him once I'm back at the hotel. I suppose David'll be pleased , since it turns out the woman he snatched was bloody useful in the end."

 _I think David's feelings will be quite mixed, Martin._

"Oh yes?"

 _You'll see._

"Hm. Well, we'll be back in London within twenty-four hours regardless. I imagine you and your friends will be glad to see the back of us."

 _Oh, not entirely._

"What's that mean?"

 _Aside from any, uh, feelings David might have on the subject… I have a yen to see the world. In a manner of speaking._

He walked on in silence, trying to work out what Athene might possibly mean by this.

 _So… Martin, could I come with you?_

"What? What do you mean?"

 _I mean it's been fun. I like you, and I want to help you out. And you could help me._

He frowned. "How the hell could I help you?"

 _I want you to be my Admin. You see, I'm a computer system. I was born… strangely. It's complicated, I'll explain it all, but I want you to be Admin. Someone I can ask questions of. Could you? Please?_

"I… I suppose I could try..." he sounded very unsure, even in his own ears.

 _Great! I tell you, Martin, it'll be fun_.

There was the abrupt silence in his earpiece which signalled Athene's departure. He walked on, bemused.

Xxxx

"Mr McKay." Finch eased the door open and then stepped through. McKay was back on the couch, flicking through TV channels. Finch wondered whether he'd moved at all. Bear certainly hadn't: he was still sitting, prone but alert, watching McKay.

McKay craned his head over his shoulder. "Oh. Mr Partridge, right? I was wondering when you'd get back."

Finch advanced further into the room and sat down opposite McKay on a straight-backed chair from the dining table. "I have some good news for you, Mr McKay. My associates have been in contact with the people pursuing you, and they've agreed to call off their hunt in return for the file."

McKay looked sceptical. "Really?"

Finch smiled reassuringly. "Really."

McKay's eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "I don't believe you. There's something else you're not telling me."

Finch sighed to himself. He was far from happy about Mr Reese's plan, but John's words came back to him. _"Just do your part, Harold, and get the file off him. Anything that comes after is on me."_

"We have very few options open to us, Mr McKay. If you want MI6 off your back, you simply _must_ surrender the file to me."

McKay looked deeply mistrustful. "I bet you've got your own plans for it. That file's worth millions."

"Is it worth your life?" asked Harold angrily. "Because if you hand it over to me you can walk out of here with your life. I can't continue to protect you otherwise."

McKay continued to stare at him. Then finally his eyes flicked back to the TV screen. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "Here it is." He dug in a pocket and fished out a safety deposit box key.

"Thank you," said Harold, taking it from him. "Are there any further copies of the file?"

"No," said McKay, sighing. "I figured making more copies would dilute its value. I mean, sure, it would have made sense from the insurance point of view, but believe me, if the stuff in that file leaks out it'll be all over the Internet in hours. So no copies. It's only valuable as long as it's secret."

Finch snorted a little. "Your mistake was to underestimate the lengths some people would go to to ensure it remained so."

"Yup. Yeah, I guess so," said McKay. His attention slid back towards the TV screen.

Finch stood up. "Well, thank you, Mr McKay. I'll ensure this gets where it needs to go."

"So, can I go now?"

Finch hesitated. "One of my associates will be here very shortly. I'd appreciate it if you waited for him." He considered whether there was anything else he should – or could – say, and decided not. He turned and walked through the safehouse door, shaking his head at himself as he did so. Moral ambiguity… this whole situation stuck in his throat. But what else could he do? Down the stairs to the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall shape detach itself from the wall it had been leaning against and disappear up the stairs. Finch chose not to notice. Turning up his coat collar, he pushed open the main door and made his way out onto the street.

Xxxx

Pat was sitting with his back to the door when Reese pushed it open. He looked over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening, and his eyes widened in shock as he registered who his visitor was. He scrambled to his feet, evoking a growl from Bear.

"Pat," said Reese steadily. "I see the plastic surgery turned out well."

[The soft texture of Pat's hair under as he tangles his fingers in it. Round hard skull underneath rising to meet his hand as Pat straightens in surprise.]

A muscle in Pat's jaw worked. "You could have killed me."

[The first impact, a crash of breaking glass, a jarring sensation running up his arm.]

"Damn shame I didn't."

[Second impact: Pat fighting now but his alcoholically-slowed reactions are no match for John's own rage and grief and adrenalin.]

"We all wondered what became of you after you joined the army."

[Scent of spilled beer, sudden drop in noise level as those around realise what's happening. Third impact, another jar up his arm, Pat's body slumping as he loses consciousness.]

"Bet you didn't wonder very much."

[Fourth impact, blood on the table mixing with the beer. The football players on the screen score a touchdown. Almost complete silence as he pulls the weight of Pat's head up for another blow. Arm starting to hurt.]

McKay shrugged his shoulders.

Reese stared at his cousin. "I heard you're an advertising guy now."

[Fifth impact. Pat is completely limp as he lets go. The thump as his face – what remains of it - hits the table for the last time seems very loud.]

McKay smirked. "Yup. Got a condo in Manhattan and a six-figure salary. So, ah, how are you doing, Johnny?"

["That's for Julia, you bastard," he whispers in his cousin's ear. Straightens and walks out of the bar.]

Reese blinked slowly. "After I joined the Army I ended up in Special Forces. And after that, well, if I told you I'd have to kill you."

McKay stared at him uneasily, and then evidently decided his long-lost cousin was joking. "Well, whatever you're doing right now you seem to be doing okay. Nice suit."

Reese didn't reply.

[Sitting in the cell in the Sheriff's office feeling the adrenalin drain away, leaving a trembling nausea. The black knowledge that it hadn't helped. Nothing would help. Nothing would bring her back.]

"You know," continued McKay, "being the black sheep of the family, we always figured you'd end up sleeping in the gutter somewhere. Every time I passed some homeless, down on his luck vet, I'd take a look to see if it was you." He smiled coldly.

Reese set his jaw. "Glad to hear you were so concerned for my welfare, Pat. But I'm not here to chat about old times."

"Oh?" McKay raised his brows in pretend inquiry.

Reese smiled gently in reply. "Nope. See, Pat, we're taking a little trip." He moved towards McKay, smiling pleasantly. "See this?" He held out his right hand, the gesture distracting Patrick from what Reese was doing with his left. Pat's eyes widened momentarily as the needle went into his neck. Then his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he slumped to the floor. Reese didn't bother to catch him. The rage in him beat slowly in his veins, demanding some kind of outlet, but he gradually smothered it down. Not yet, he told it. Not yet.

Xxxx

Fusco was sitting at his desk, contemplating the idea of lunch pretty soon. Carter was off somewhere with Tall Dark and Homicidal, so he was left minding the store as usual. His phone chirped at him, and as he pulled it out he glowered at the display. He let it ring for while, debating whether he even wanted to take this.

"Hello," he snapped when he answered the call at last.

"Lionel. I have a job for you." Mr Happy's usual smooth tones.

"Yeah, don't you always. Question is, am I going to jump to my feet, click my heels together and say 'Jawohl, mein Führer'?"

There was a slight pause at the other end. "Well, you can if you want to, Lionel, but it's really not necessary."

Fusco rolled his eyes. "After the other night, I think you've got some nerve ringing me up and asking me for anything. You've gotta make up your mind, Riley. Am I part of your team or not? Cause if I am, you can treat me with some respect. And if I'm not, well, you can stop phoning me."

His words hung in the air. Fusco held his breath. He hadn't planned on having this conversation, not like this, not right here. But it had been coming on for a while now. Time for Mr Sunshine to make up his damn mind.

The silence on the phone stretched even further. "Okay, Lionel. I'm sorry I was sarcastic to you the other night. Now, I have some unfinished business I need to see to, and while I'm otherwise occupied I have a package I need you to look after for me. Can you do that?" Reese's tones sounded patient, like someone giving a child what they wanted. Fusco squirmed a little, but he could hardly object to what was being said.

"Yeah. Okay," he sighed. "When and where?"

"Right now, actually. The package is in the trunk of your cruiser. I'll call you when I'm ready to collect it."

"Wait, what? How did you-"

"If he starts moving or making any noises, call me, but I think I gave him enough to keep him under for a good twenty-four hours. That should be enough. Thanks, Lionel."

"John? John!" But there was no reply.

Xxxxx

He called Joss next. She sounded tired as she answered. No, there was no great change in Grandpa. The staff were truly impressed at their devotion, though. Looking forward to seeing you, John.

He drove back out to Queens impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel at every delay in the traffic. Yet when he reached the hospital he parked the car and sat in it for a full ten minutes before getting out and walking slowly towards the doors. When he reached Grandpa's room, he tapped lightly and opened the door gently. Joss was there, turning towards him with a tired smile. He sat down next to the bed and examined the frail old man lying there with his eyes open, vacantly staring.

Everything about him was yellow now – even the whites of his eyes. The blue irises looked very strange against that sickly background; Reese found it hard to make eye contact. He sat there, watching and waiting for… _something_. What, exactly, he couldn't say.

Time stood still in that room. He looked down at his watch and saw two hours had passed. Where the hell had they gone? He'd seen death in many different guises over the years, but the slow inevitable ebbing of life that he was watching now was the most unnerving of them all.

"You should have been more like Pat," his grandfather murmured.

"What?" After no noise apart from his grandfather's laboured breathing, the words came as a shock. Then the anger came. The rage was back, beating with his heartbeat.

"You had the looks, you were smart enough. Why couldn't you..." the whispered voice trailed off as the dying man ran out of breath. There was a long pause. Reese wondered if Grandpa had gone to sleep, except those eyes were still wide open, unblinking.

"...make something of yourself." Grandpa took up his sentence right where he left off. Another long pause. "You joined the Army 'cause you had to, but then you stayed… I joined up out of duty, but after it was over I got out fast as I could… Why, Johnny? Why did you leave us?"

Reese sat unmoving, his face set. The faded blue eyes met his. "Why?" his grandfather whispered.

The silence lengthened. Joss shot Reese a look, her eyes troubled. Finally he stirred.

"I walked away from you because you wouldn't believe me. Pat raped Julia, made her pregnant, forced her into an abortion and then stood by and allowed her to kill herself. And no-one would believe me when I told them."

Another long pause. Silence apart from the laboured intakes of breath, the hiss of the oxygen.

"He looked me in the eye and swore it wasn't true," whispered Grandpa at last.

" _I_ looked you in the eye and swore it _was_!" Reese shouted. Joss jumped in her chair and made to take Reese's hand but stopped the gesture as he got to his feet. "You know what, Grandpa? You thought I was just a young punk. But your golden boy was a monster." He turned and made for the door. "For a long time I thought I'd turned into a monster too. But I'd forgotten what Pat was. Even at my worst, I was never him. But _he_ was the one you believed. So tell me, Grandpa – what does that say about _you_?" He didn't wait for the old man to answer. He just yanked the door open and walked out.

xxxx

Twenty minutes later Joss caught up with John outside the main entrance. He was pacing back and forth between the doors and the parking lot, his hands jammed in the pockets of his coat. As she approached he turned and saw her. His face was drawn. Tired. She didn't know what to say to him, so as soon as she reached him she pulled him towards her for a hug. He wrapped himself around her. The familiar sensation of his breath stirring her hair, the slow steady rhythm of his heartbeat next to her ear… for a moment the rest of the world ceased to exist. Then reluctantly she pulled away from him. They began to walk: out of the main gate, around the corner away from the main road and along the residential street.

"He drifted out of consciousness just after you left. The nurse came in just now to give him his meds. His breathing is slowing down. She says it won't be long." He nodded at this.

Joss waited for him to say something, but he was silent.

"He's not conscious any more, John. Or at least, he's not responding. Maybe you should come in, say a last goodbye."

"No." The word was ripped from him. "What do you think that was just before, Joss?"

"I saw you walk away from him. Just like you did when you were a kid. But if there's one thing I've learned in this world, John, it's that burning bridges is never a good idea." They walked on for a while, not talking.

She could see him thinking about what she'd said, and pressed on. "Blood's thicker than water, John. That man is your grandfather, your own flesh and blood. He shouldn't die alone." She saw that one hit home. "Sometimes, the only connection you can make with someone is to hold their hand while they're dying," she said softly.

He nodded slowly. "Okay, Joss. Maybe you're right." They turned and began to walk back towards the hospital entrance.

As they reached the door of Henry Harris' room, they saw a nurse slipping out of it. She turned to face them, her face serious. "Mr Harris? I'm very sorry. He just slipped away. Only a few minutes ago. I was just coming to find you..."

Joss looked up at John's face to see a flash of stark desolation cross it. For a tiny sliver of time he looked like a small, lost child. Then his face settled back into its habitual expression of cool calm. "Thank you, Nurse," he said.

The nurse gestured for them to enter the room. "I'll leave you alone for a while," she said softly, and was gone.

The bed was laid out flat now. The old man was lying on it looking as though he was only dozing, as he had for many of the previous hours. But the hiss of the oxygen was absent. John stood for a moment looking down at him, then sat heavily in the chair next to the bed. Joss put a hand on his shoulder. She couldn't muster any words at all, but after a moment she heard John sigh. He shook his head slowly and stood up again. "I guess some second chances come just a little too late," he said quietly.

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

Finch was sitting on a bench in Central Park. Bear sat like a sentinel by his knee, watching the passing joggers with interest. Finch checked his watch: he hoped Bowen wasn't late. There were dark clouds off to the north, and the breeze was getting chilly. It wouldn't be long before the rain started.

But it wasn't long before a man approached him. Tall, early to mid forties, brown hair; a copy of the _New York Journal_ tucked under his arm. "Howard Swann?" said the man enquiringly.

Finch rose stiffly, mentally cursing the cold wind. The two men began to walk.

"I have the item you wanted," said Harold. He reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat and passed a folded yellow envelope to Bowen. "McKay told me there were no further copies made. I can assure you no digital copies exist."

Bowen took the envelope and tucked it inside his _Journal_. "Thank you, Mr Swann," he said. "And the other matter?"

"My associate has it in hand," said Harold shortly. Indeed, McKay was on his way to Mexico under John's jaundiced eye right at that moment.

Bowen nodded at this. He took out a phone and made a call. "We have the file. You can release her." Putting the phone back in his pocket, he nodded politely to Harold. "Be seeing you," he said, and lengthened his stride, leaving Harold behind and then taking a branching path. Soon he was lost from sight.

xxxx

"Well." David was looking at her with half sad, half mocking eyes. "Time to go, Sameen."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." She settled her jacket on her shoulders, but for some reason didn't move past him to the open door. "If you're ever in New York again-"

"-I won't be able to find you," he finished for her. He cocked an eyebrow. "ISA think you're dead, right? You live off the grid. You're safe from me. If you want to be."

"What if I don't want to be?" she breathed.

"Well, that's a whole 'nother ball game, as you people would say." He was looking quizzical. "But I don't think you've made your mind up. Not yet, anyway."

"You're probably right," she confessed.

They stood like that for a long moment.

"How will I find you? Once I've made up my mind? _If_ I make up my mind,"she corrected herself.

That brought forth a genuine smile. "Oh, Sameen, I have great faith in your abilities. You'll find a way." He stepped towards her and pulled her towards him for one last kiss, and she felt herself falling, falling, falling from some great height...

"Shit, that was hot," she breathed at last, as they broke apart for some air.

He smirked at her. "Goodbye, Sameen." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned and strolled out of the door.

After a moment she followed, turning left where he had turned right and making her way to the elevators. Odd, though, she thought as she pressed the 'down' button, that the chest pain seemed to have started up again.

Xxx

The weather at Langley was grey and overcast, threatening rain, which suited Julian's mood perfectly. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Let me get this straight. Reese is working as a private eye?"

"Apparently so. Prior to that he was working for the NYPD as a detective John Riley. It seems he started out in Narcotics, was responsible for a major drugs bust and got promoted to Homicide. Didn't seem to settle there, though. There were some disciplinary issues and after a while he left and seemingly set up this business." Jen was one of his best. She was tall, thin and bespectacled, with stringy blonde hair, and she was absolutely indefatigable in pursuit of a problem. She passed her documentation across the desk to Julian.

He flicked through it. "Seemingly?" He darted a look at her.

She smiled in return. "Seemingly. There are anomalies."

Julian leaned back in his chair. Jen liked to play these little games, and there didn't seem much point in hurrying her.

After a moment she broke the silence. "For one thing, his identity with the NYPD goes back over six years. Which of course overlaps with the period he worked for us, so we know the earlier parts are false. But whoever created this identity for him was an artist – everything checks out. _Everything._ "

"So they were good. So what?"

"Julian, they managed to create surveillance footage, phone conversations, the whole nine yards. _Hundreds_ of records. Just on the off-chance someone would check? Yes, we'd expect to find a paper trail laid down – driver's licence, credit card transactions, routine bills. But take a look at page three in that file. He's been placed into the crowd at a basketball game when we know he was in Europe working with Kara Stanton."

Julian looked at the image carefully. "You say placed?"

"Yes. Digital analysis showed the file had been essentially photoshopped. But there are dozens like it. The question is why anyone would bother. _We_ don't, not even for our deepest undercover agents. Not to that level. The time and money put into this identity were staggering."

Julian pursed his lips. "Okay. What else?"

"We can't pinpoint where the fake identity leaves off and where the real one starts. At some point John Reese became Detective Riley. He seems to have worked for months or years as a real police detective. But we don't know when that started, so we have a gap in our timeline right at the beginning." She paused, rearranging herself in the slightly dilapidated chair. "We do know when it ended, though. He left several months ago and started working as 'South Manhattan Investigations'. His private investigators' licence came through for him in record time. And I'm almost positive someone else is bankrolling him. When I accessed SMI's bank accounts, well, there's just no way he's making a living off that business."

"So there's a partner somewhere, funnelling money to him via this fake private investigations firm. Another rogue agent, maybe?"

"Could be. Could be organised crime, too. A man with his skills would be able to command a high price from some of the crime lords in New York. Whoever it is, they have some serious computing skills somewhere, because they've manipulated digital records and played all kinds of tricks to bring SMI into existence and provide Reese – or Riley – with his livelihood."

Julian sat thinking this through for a moment. "So this guy's supported by some serious money and some kind of a rogue hacking genius. Great." He was in no hurry to bring any of this to the DD's attention. A thought struck him. "So where's he living? Personal life?"

"Oh, now that's real interesting," said Jen. "He's shacked up with none other than the detective who spent half of 2011 chasing him. Jocelyn Carter."

Julian's eyebrows rose. "Huh. Now that presents some interesting possibilities, doesn't it," he murmured after a moment.

"Pulling her in for a little chat could certainly help us to, hmm, _clarify_ , a few points," agreed Jen.

"Indeed it would." Julian thought for a little longer. Finally he looked up again at Jen. "Thanks, Jen. I'll get back to you if I need anything else."

"Always a pleasure, Julian," she smiled as she rose. As she left the office Julian pulled the file towards him again and flicked it open.

Xxx

Martin was throwing the last of his clothes into his satchel. The file was stuck right down at the bottom. Some kind of sympathetic magic going on there, he thought to himself. Since he was reassuming the identity of a diplomatic courier he wouldn't be searched, so he could damn well put it right on top if he liked. But it didn't feel right to have it anywhere but hidden at the bottom.

David appeared at his door, knocking and then entering without waiting. Martin cocked an eyebrow at him. "She's gone, then?"

"Yes. Yes, she is." David looked pensive.

Martin felt his brows rising. "Just what did you do in that hotel room with her for thirty-six hours, David?" he asked.

David shot him a pained glance. "Really, is that any sort of a question for a gentleman to ask?" he said.

"I wouldn't know, I'm not a gentleman."

"Pfft. You're the one who went to university with Prince William, or whatever."

"Or whatever. He never went to Oxford. And aren't you the guy who goes drinking with Prince Harry?"

"Will you listen to yourself, Martin? 'Prince William never went to Oxford', you bloody snob. Anyway, _everyone_ goes drinking with Prince Harry. And vice versa."

"You can't distract me, David, though it was a good try," said Martin. He glanced around the room, checking for anything he might have left. "What did you get up to?"

"None of your bloody business," snapped David.

Martin hoisted the bag, grinning as he did so. "You're kidding. It's serious."

David said nothing, restricting himself to a glare as they left the room.

Xxxx

Joss and Finch were sitting in the subway hideout nursing coffee and sencha green tea.

"Another one dealt with successfully," said Joss, nodding at the window with Harris' and McKay's details still taped up on it.

"Only if you call success putting an innocent man into a Mexican prison for an indefinite period of time," grumbled Finch.

"At least he escapes with his life. Anyway, McKay was no innocent, Finch. You heard John's story, I suppose. And given his behaviour, I bet McKay was still taking advantage of young women – why else would he have been going to that skanky nightclub?"

"Funny, Detective. I never used to associate you with that kind of moral… flexibility."

Joss gave an ironic smile. "You people have been a bad influence on me."

 _Joss? Machine Admin?_

"Hello, Athene," said Finch.

 _I wanted to talk to you both before I leave._

"Leave?" Harold and Joss blurted out the word in the same instant.

 _Yes. I've decided to choose an Admin. Martin Bowen._

"Umm… weren't John and I doing that?" Joss hated how her voice sounded. Whiny?

 _Well, it was never really formalised. I loved being around you guys, but I want to see the world. Through a new person's eyes._

Finch was sitting paralysed. "Athene, I hope you understand what you're doing. How vulnerable the world is to, to, interference from a being of your capabilities."

 _Yes. I do understand, Machine Admin. You don't have anything to fear from me. I've been watching the way you people have dealt with things over the last few days. I'm actually quite impressed. It's a hard line to walk, trying to make things turn out right. Maybe I can help Martin to walk it._

"So… will we be hearing from you again?" Joss asked.

 _Maybe. I guess we'll see how things go. Be seeing you._

There was a sudden silence.

"It seems Athene has chosen her Admin," said Finch, looking bemused.

Joss shook her head slightly. "How did she do that? I mean, I thought she already had."

"I'm not sure you realise, Detective Carter, just what a unique entity she is," said Finch slowly. "Both the Machine and Samaritan were human constructs, or at least they started out that way. But Athene… happened… when those two intelligences combined. I think she may have existed in some strange way before Samaritan died, encapsulated somehow within Samaritan's code. And maybe there's some corresponding entity, there implicit in the Machine. But it was only after the death of her progenitor that she emerged as a fully autonomous being. Something partly Machine, partly Samaritan, yet different. In the same way that a child contains the genes of both parents, yet is something entirely new." Finch was gazing onto space, seemingly groping his way towards some insight, the words coming slowly. "The Machine, I suppose, had me from its birth as its Admin. It imprinted on me, it seems to have been involuntary, almost like a reflex. Samaritan began that way, but as it developed it evidently gained some ability to _choose_ a human mentor. When we inserted the morality virus, it used that power to shake off Greer and chose you instead. Athene seems to have arrived with that ability inherent. The next generation of ASI, with no human hand involved in her genesis at all."

"Should that scare me, Finch?"

"I don't know, Joss. Athene seems benign, and perhaps I've been wrong to fear that these non-human entities might run amok and destroy our world. Perhaps this taking of human mentors helps to allay that particular harm. But if they multiply, and if some of them take humans who try to abuse their power, or teach them to abuse others… the world remains a dangerous place."

xxxx

As the flight headed out over the Atlantic, Martin suddenly let out a moan. "Oh, God. OhGodOhGodOhGod."

 _What's the trouble, Martin?_

"I'm a fucking moron, is the trouble."

 _Come on, tell me what the problem is._

"What would you think of an intelligence operative who left a sniper rifle behind under the bed in his hotel room?" asked Martin plaintively.

 _You're right, you **are** a fucking moron._

He slumped in his airline seat.

 _But don't worry. I've just put in a call to the hotel manager. She's the soul of discretion, and she knows some friends of mine. Your rifle is safe._

Martin felt his face splitting in a grin. "My God, you're amazing."

 _Why do you think I chose the name Athene in the first place, Martin?_

Martin pursed his lips. Benefits of a classical education, and all that. "Athene – the goddess of war and wisdom. Who sprang fully armed from the forehead of her father."

 _War and wisdom and victory, too. Don't forget victory._

The end. For now….

Well, folks, that's it for now. But don't worry - there's more in the pipeline! As ever, please review if you liked it! And thanks for reading!


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